'A^ 

 
 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE.
 
 T H E 
 
 PRINCESS DAPHNE 
 
 ' Why ! if the Soul can fling the dust aside, 
 And, naked on the air of Heaven ride, 
 
 Wer't not a shame wer't not a shame for him 
 In this clay Carcass crippled to abide?" 
 
 Omar-i-Khayydm . 
 
 BELFORD, CLARKE & CO. 
 
 CHICAGO, NEW YORK, AND SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 1888. 

 
 COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 BELFORD, CLARKE & CO. 
 
 1888
 
 Day after day we wandered you and I 
 
 Amid a labyrinth of thought, nor found 
 
 The answer to the problem that we sought. 
 
 Day after day we pondered, asking why 
 
 Our twin souls sought each other, and seemed bound 
 
 Together by some strange resistless tie. 
 
 And as each answer seemed nor wrong nor right, 
 
 But all inexplicable, 1 forsook 
 
 The quest, and sate me down to write this book, 
 
 That peradventure may contain some light 
 
 That; thrown upon our question, may explain 
 
 The bitter pleasure and the mad, sweet pain 
 
 That we have known together. I have done 
 
 This work for you ; look kindly on the flaws 
 
 That mar it, since it leads you to the cause 
 
 Why, when we met, we felt our souls were one. 
 
 SORRENTO, March, 1885.
 
 In lands which the stupidity of civilization regards as barbarous, 
 there are occult powers of which contemporary science is absolutely igno- 
 rant. The materialism of Enrope has not the faintest conception of the 
 spirituality which the Hindus have reached . . . their mortal envelope 
 is but a chrysalis which the immortal butterfly, the sou/, can abandon 
 or resume at will. 
 
 I have attempted to undo with magnetism the bands that join mind 
 and matter. In experiments that were certainly prodigious, but which 
 failed to satisfy me, I surpassed Mesmer, Deslon, Maxwell, Puysegur, 
 and Deleiize : catalepsy, somnambulism, clairvoyance, soul-projection, in 
 fact, air the effects that are incomprehensible to the masses, though simple 
 enough to me, I have produced at will. 
 
 I have fasted, I have prayed, I have meditated so long, I have domi- 
 nated the flesh so rigorously, that I have been able to loose the terres- 
 trial bonds. Vishnu, the god of the tenfold incarnations, has revealed 
 to me- the mysterious syllable that guides the soul in its avatars. 
 
 I am not an erudite in the ordinary acceptation of the word ; but on 
 the other hand, in studying certain subjects disdained by science, I have 
 mastered some unemployed occult forces, and I prodtice effects which 
 appear miraculous, though they are perfectly natural. . . . By wntch- 
 ing for it I have sometimes surprised the soul .... Armed with the 
 force of my will, tJiat electricity of the intellect, I vivify or I annilii- 
 hi te. Nothing is opaque to my eyes ; my gaze pierces everything. . . . 
 We Europeans are too superficial, too matter of fact, too much in love 
 with our clay prison, to open ivindows on the eternal and infinite. 
 
 THEOPIIILE GAUTIER. "AVATAR." 
 
 \_Myndaert b'erelsfs Translation^
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER. PAGE. 
 
 PROLOGUE it 
 
 I. A BOHEMIAN SOIREE 13 
 
 II. UNE MA!TRESSE FEMME 36 
 
 III. L'AMOUR EST ENFANT DE BOHEME 57 
 
 IV. MESMERISM 77 
 
 V. DAPHNE AND ERIC 95 
 
 VI. AN ANGLOMANIAC 124 
 
 VII. CLOUDS 143 
 
 VIII. TRANSMIGRATION 166 
 
 IX. THE REINCARNATION OF DAPHNE 181 
 
 X. THE AUT6CRAT OF TRTHWWSTHPLLGG 205 
 
 XI. ATTRACTION AND REPULSION 221 
 
 XII. " SPLENDIDE MENDAX 1 " 237 
 
 EPILOGUE 255
 
 THE 
 PRINCESS DAPHNE, 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 " THEN, if I understand you rightly," said Mr. Paul du 
 Peyral, " the case lies thus. My late friend and benefactor, 
 Casimir Preault, makes my enjoyment of the fortune he has 
 left behind him, contingent upon my offering myself as 
 the husband of his second cousin, Miss Daphne Pre'ault 
 of New Orleans ? " 
 
 " Exactly ! " 
 
 " And if she refuses me, I enjoy the income only so long 
 as I remain unmarried ? " 
 
 " Exactly ! " 
 
 " And should I marry anyone else, it reverts at once to 
 that young lady, unconditionally ? " 
 
 " Exactly ! " 
 
 " I understand good morning." 
 
 " Good morning ; " and the senior partner of the firm of 
 Seligman, Searcher, & Certiorari bowed Mr. Paul du Peyral 
 out of his office on the ground-floor of No. 195 Nassau 
 Street, New York City. 
 
 "Well," said the latter gentleman to himself, as he pro- 
 ceeded up-town in a brown study and a cab, " I am in a 
 pretty peculiar position. Prospectively a wealthy man, but 
 my wealth contingent on my offering myself to a woman I 
 have never seen. Wellj they say she is beautiful. Daphne 
 
 1 1
 
 12 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 seems inevitable ! and as the inevitable I accept her. I 
 wonder if she will accept me ? " 
 
 On reaching his rooms he straightway indited a letter, lay- 
 ing his hand and heart at the feet of the testator's nominee. 
 This done, he dressed himself ; and, with the air of one who 
 has manfully done his duty, he sought Delmonico's and 
 dinner. 
 
 A week later, he received the following reply : 
 
 NEW ORLEANS, LA. ; December , 18 . 
 
 Sir: 
 
 Your impertinent offer of marriage has reached my 
 daughter, who has placed it in my hands to reply thereto. 
 We beg, once and for all, to decline the offer with which I 
 presume you consider that you honour us. We have already 
 suffered sufficiently from the madness of my cousin, Mr. 
 Casimir Preault, of Baton Rouge ; we did not expect, how- 
 ever, that he would insult us by suggesting the possibility of 
 an alliance between his second cousin and his body-servant. 
 We congratulate you on the disgraceful success of your 
 efforts to gain an ascendency over the enfeebled mind of an 
 octogenarian, though that ascendency robs us temporarily of 
 an inheritance which should be justly ours. Any further 
 communications that you may wish to make to us must be 
 made through the attorneys to the estate, Messrs. Seligman, 
 Searcher, & Certiorari ; any letter of yours to us will be re- 
 turned unopened. I have but one regret, and that is, that 
 my age and infirmities prevent my administering the chas- 
 tisement that, in my opinion, you deserve. 
 
 Obediently Yours, 
 
 VICTOR PREAULT. 
 
 " Good ! " ejaculated Mr. Paul du Peyral, as he turned to 
 his breakfast ; " I've got the money unhampered by the 
 woman."
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. 
 
 Do you know Holland Street, Kensington ? Yes ? I 
 wonder whether you do, or whether you answer me "in the 
 air," the prcenomcn " Holland," as applied to streets, roads, 
 parks, and gardens, in that expansive area known as " Ken- 
 sington : ' to us, which comprises the Brompton, the Notting- 
 Hill, the Hammersmith, the Fulham, and almost the St. 
 John's Wood of our fathers, being so familiar as to call 
 forth the affirmative with hardly a moment's reflection as 
 to whether one is telling the truth or not. For Holland 
 Street is not a very well known locality : it is hardly a 
 thoroughfare : and unlike Holland Road, and Holland Park, 
 and Holland Park gardens, it is not lined with the gorgeous 
 abodes of fashionable Bohemia but it is Bohemia all the 
 same, Bohemia as we knew it, the Bohemia of Thackeray, 
 of Jerrold, of Albert Smith, and almost of Dickens ; and it 
 is inhabited, or at any rate was, at the time of which I write, 
 exclusively by " the boys." The men who lived there were 
 " the boys," and wore the pepper-and-salt continuations, the 
 velveteen or corduroy jackets, the open collars and quaint 
 ties, the comfortable shirts and the uncompromising hats that 
 distinguish " the boys " from their uninteresting but respect- 
 able fellow-men, all the world over. And the women, too 
 they too were of " the boys " ; and since long before Oscar 
 Wilde carried the costume of the atelier into every-day life 
 and conventional drawing-rooms, they had worn the artistic 
 folds and colours which have become familiar to us coupled 
 with the adjective "aesthetic," and, in merry communion with 
 the male artists, enjoyed a blissful immunity from the tor- 
 tures of civilization, represented for them by high heels, tight 
 
 13
 
 !4 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 waists, Mrs. Grundy, and the Nineteenth Century dress- 
 improver. 
 
 Those were happy days in Holland Street, and its Bohe- 
 mian glories have not yet quite departed ; its red-brick walls 
 and ramshackle studios have not been invaded or routed by 
 " villa residences " ; its pipes have not been banished by the 
 the cigarette ; it has hardly begun to be civilized, even to the 
 extent to which Bedford Gardens and like localities have 
 succumbed to the influence of fashionable Bohemianism, 
 and there are many nooks yet therein, where the dress clothes 
 cease from troubling and the opera hat's at rest. You know, 
 of course, the church-yard of St. Mary Abbott's, and Horn- 
 ton Street : those are the media of communication by which 
 "the boys " sought the outer world when they wanted it 
 which was seldom. They took the little flagged footpath 
 through the church-yard, or, when the carrying of a picture 
 to or from an exhibition warranted or required the extrava- 
 gance of a cab, they reached their classic shades via Horn- 
 ton Street. Hornton Street is practically a one-sided affair 
 looking due west ; that is to say, throughout a greater part 
 of its length it looks out over the gardens of Something 
 Priory (I think it is called), and its inhabitants dread the day 
 when this " open lot," as the Americans would say, shall be 
 built over by greedy heirs, or by thrifty executors and trustees 
 for now, in the early spring, from their upper windows they 
 can watch the birth of the year and the return of the song- 
 birds, and later on they can open them and get the full bene- 
 fit of the summer fragrance. A discreet little street is that 
 called Hornton, where there is no danger of being over- 
 looked by inquisitive " opposite neighbors," but not inhabited 
 by a homeful little colony like Holland Street or as Hol- 
 land Street was in the autumn of the year 18 . 
 
 My story opens in the September of that year. Autumn 
 seemed to have roused herself from her long sleep, and had 
 timorously tentatively, as it were laid her chilly touch 
 upon the great city, to warn it that ere long she would be 
 fully awake, and strong enough to take it wholly into her
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. l $ 
 
 grasp. Already the chestnut trees in some of the parks and 
 squares seemed to have realized that they could not store up 
 for another year the gold they had gathered from the sun- 
 shine during the summer, and had begun to squander it ex- 
 travagantly, flinging it lavishly to earth in the brilliant 
 bronzes and gilts of the leaves that strewed the grass be- 
 neath them ; the sparrows were beginning to seek the patches 
 of sunlight on the tree-tops, or fluffed themselves into cosy, 
 chattering feather-balls in the warm dust of the more de- 
 serted roadways. The summer was not gone, but it was 
 strong with life only for a day or so at a time, husbanding its 
 strength, as it were, during the intervening hours, to display 
 it with the more arrogance at intervals, as a temptation to 
 the world. 
 
 But the season of the year was a matter of indifference in 
 Holland Street. Spring meant, in its eyes, one of the male 
 " boys," flying into the studio of one of the female " boys," 
 and dragging her out for a walk, out toward Hammer- 
 smith and Chiswick and Barnes and Ealing; summer 
 meant half-a-dozen of them providing their own refreshments, 
 and going up the river to find that each had been struck with 
 the same original idea, viz., to bring a chicken-pie ; autumn 
 meant a cottage by a wood or by the sea, whence they 
 should return laden with sketches and " studies " to be 
 worked up in the winter; the winter, which represented only 
 an increased expenditure of gas and coal, with tea and muf- 
 fins at intervals during the day. How happy we were ! and 
 now that we are respectable fathers and mothers of families, 
 a younger generation is doing the same thing behind the 
 walls and windows of Holland Street. 
 
 Perhaps I am generalizing too much, for of course I have 
 a particular house a particular menage in my mind's eye. 
 It is No. 141 on the north side of the street, one of 
 those houses with no front to it, which gives one the idea 
 that the builder was going to face it the other way, but 
 changed his mind at the last moment, cut a front door 
 looking into the back-yard, and filled up the road in front
 
 !6 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE, 
 
 with a garden which garden, in turn, the inhabitants had 
 filled up with a studio. There are many such in Holland 
 Street. Where the houses are, so to speak, right side fore- 
 most, there are little gardens in front of them, wherein 
 old-fashioned flowers grow luxuriantly in defiance of the 
 London smoke, and through which flagged pathways lead 
 from the front doors to the wooden gates ; and in one of these 
 we shall seek some of the actors in this drama. 
 
 At present our attention is turned to No. 141, at whose un- 
 compromisingly ugly door a young man is letting himself in 
 with a latch-key. An artist obviously, by his velveteen coat, 
 soft hat, and long hair ; and a man whom one would remark 
 wherever one might see him. His face is, perhaps, too finely 
 moulded for a man's there are those who declare him to be 
 effeminate in appearance ; his eyes are large and of a danc- 
 ing brown, his nostrils clearly cut, his lips thin, the jaw is 
 square, the forehead high, and the brows are straight, the 
 whole being framed in masses of rather light brown hair. 
 The hand and arm not occupied in opening the door are en- 
 cumbered with parcels ; Gabriel Hawleigh has been shop- 
 ping in High Street, Kensington. Whilst he fumbles with 
 the key, the door is opened from the inside by a girl, dressed 
 in along, loose frock of chestnut brown, girt about the waist 
 with a broad moirJ sash, who stands on the steps and laughs 
 at him. The front of her dress is concealed protected 
 rather by a long apron, and calico sleeve-preservers are 
 tied over her arms, from the elbow down. She is neither 
 pretty nor plain, but her great, grave, gloomy gray eyes quar- 
 rel with the sweetness of her expression, and with the laugh 
 which, parting her finely traced lips, displays two rows of 
 dazzling teeth. Her hair, rather short, forms round her head 
 an aureole of gold, which shimmers as she laughs at the 
 " boy " on the door-step. In sooth a goodly sight are they, as 
 she stands in the shade of the doorway, and he, with one foot 
 on the step, looks up at her. 
 
 "Thanks, Maye," says he, as he steps into the house and 
 she closes the door.
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. ij 
 
 " Have you got the muffins ? " she inquires, anxiously. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And the plums ? " 
 
 " Here they are ; they had a narrow escape from squash- 
 ing against Dick Lindsay, as I came through the church- 
 yard." 
 
 " And the soda-water ? " 
 
 " It's coming round I won't carry soda-water bottles 
 through High Street." 
 
 " And the coffee ? " 
 
 " There ! " 
 
 " And the cheese ? " 
 
 " Rather ! " 
 
 " Very well ; go and finish clearing out the studio, and I'll 
 come up directly ; " and the girl disappears, whilst Gabriel 
 hangs up his hat, and, passing through the little drawing- 
 room on the right, steps through the window into the studio. 
 Here he looks round him as one is wont to look round when 
 one is " at home," and then produces from his apparently 
 inexhaustible pockets a box of cigarettes, which he dumps 
 down rather contemptuously upon the mantel-shelf, and a fat 
 package of tobacco, which he empties carefully into a stone 
 jar by their side. 
 
 The studio already shows signs of having been cleared 
 somewhat, but now he continues the operation, carefully 
 covering a half-finished picture on an easel with a cloth as he 
 turns it to the wall, and lifting into a corner a smaller easel, 
 the flower-painting on which, however, he does not cover up. 
 Only, the bowl of Gloire de Dijon roses which stood on a table 
 by its side he carefully carries out of the studio and up-stairs 
 into his own room, taking pains that their arrangement be 
 not disturbed, so that on the morrow Maye Trevethick may 
 have no difficulty in finishing her study from them. When 
 he returns, an elderly lady is sitting in a low arm-chair by 
 the window of the drawing-room. 
 
 " Ah ! madre," cries he, " how are we getting on ? " 
 
 " I think everything is ready now, dear. Maye is putting
 
 i 8 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 the finishing touches to the baked meats down-stairs, and I'm 
 ready to receive the company, and have got all my stereo- 
 typed phrases ready to greet them with. We shall have 
 quite an historic party ! " 
 
 There was to be a party in the studio, the reader has 
 gathered that already, and the little household at No. 141 
 Holland Street were quite excited at the prospect of the festi- 
 val, which was to be one of those merry Bohemian orgies such 
 as " the boys " delighted in. Let me present the host to 
 you before the company arrives. Stay ! there is a ring at the 
 bell some one arriving ? No, only a boy with the soda-water. 
 
 The lady in the window is Mrs. Hawleigh a sensible, 
 clever old lady, such as young men delight in talking to, 
 very courteous, very correct, a great reader, but a wise old 
 lady who, having passed her later life in poverty, by compar- 
 ison with the affluence of her earlier years, knows her 
 world thoroughly, and in the parlance of " the boys," has 
 no nonsense about her. Hermippus the Sage it was who 
 remarked that the society of young people keeps old people 
 young ; and this was the case with Mrs. Hawleigh the ar- 
 tistic colony with whom we are concerned adored her. She 
 was a kind of mother to them all, and returned their affec- 
 tion with impartiality : she had only two especial favourites, 
 and they were her son Gabriel Hawleigh and her niece 
 Maye Trevethick. She had married, when quite young, a 
 lieutenant in the ill-fated Light Brigade, and soon after that 
 fateful 25th of October, when the blue and black missive 
 from the War Office had told her that the young husband to 
 whom she had given her whole soul without reserve had rid- 
 den " into the jaws of death, into the gates of Hell," and had 
 left his fair young body before the batteries of Balaclava, 
 she had given birth prematurely to her boy Gabriel. His 
 consequent delicacy was almost a source of solace to her, as 
 a safeguard against his joining that profession which had 
 already torn two-thirds of all she cared for in the world 
 from her. Mrs. Hawleigh, though possessed of but slender 
 means, lived only for Gabriel, and had refused to marry
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. { g 
 
 again ; had only watched with delighted solicitude the growth 
 of her son's artistic taste, and had denied herself many a little 
 luxury that he might cultivate it to the utmost ; for Gabriel, 
 with all his softness and delicacy, had undoubted talent in 
 the profession he had taken up, though that talent had not 
 as yet proved very remunerative. 
 
 Gabriel Hawleigh was an artist and a fiddler, and spent 
 his life in the companionship of his easel and his violin. 
 His mahl-stick and his fiddle-bow were the twin sceptres of 
 his autocratic power in Holland Street. Often his mother 
 feared that the one would interfere with the other, but it was 
 impossible to make him forsake the one and cleave to the 
 other, especially since Maye Trevethick had become a mem- 
 ber of the household, with her enthusiasm for her paint-brush 
 under the tuition and the able tuition of Gabriel, and her 
 skilled, sympathetic touch upon the piano which stood in a 
 corner of the studio, and on which she would often play rich 
 phantasies by the hour, or accompany Gabriel when, for her 
 delight and that of his mother, he would take up 
 
 " this small, sweet thing, 
 
 Devised in love and fashioned cunningly 
 Of wood and strings," 
 
 interpreting the masterpieces of the composers for his in- 
 strument, or following Maye through the chords and melo- 
 dies of some daring improvisation, in which he would plead 
 to her in harmonious whispers of things unutterable. For 
 they were very poor in this world's riches. Ah yi ! 
 
 Maye Trevethick, the orphan and only child of Mrs. Haw- 
 leigh's only sister, had joined the household some three years 
 before, and was now a sweet woman of nineteen. Gabriel 
 was twenty-two. By that you can approximately fix the date 
 of my story. When her father, Claude Trevethick, had died 
 in India, her mother had soon followed him to " that undis- 
 covered country from whose bourne no traveller returns," and 
 her worldly possessions hardly sufficing for the co-mainte- 
 nance of body and soul, Mrs. Hawleigh had taken the girl to
 
 2O THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 her heart and home, and the menage in Holland Street had 
 become triple instead of, as heretofore, dual. Mrs. Hawleigh 
 had never regretted her good-hearted impulse, for the pure, 
 sweet girl had brought a rare sunshine into the little house, 
 and was as much one of the family as if she had been 
 in very truth Gabriel's sister. Such were the inmates of 
 No. 141, and such, one of them at least prayed that they 
 might ever continue, for the mother's heart read truly in the 
 clear pages of her boy's soul, and daily she wove happy vi- 
 sions of a happy future. 
 
 The hour approached for which, as Maye said, " the cards 
 had been sent out." Mrs. Hawleigh was suppressing a 
 tendency to doze, and Maye and Gabriel were having an 
 active row about the framing of certain works of art that at 
 present lay around the studio in a frightfully dissolute state, 
 when the bell rang, and Eric Trevanion was announced by the 
 " Empress," a good-naturedly obese person of uncertain age, 
 who, progressing through the stages of Mrs. Hawleigh's 
 maid, Gabriel's nurse, and general factotum in Holland 
 Street, had enjoyed the names of almost every imperial 
 Roman dame, and from Eudoxia, Theodora, Faustina, As- 
 pasia, Poppaea, and a host of others, the morals of whose 
 original bearers would have brought her gray hairs in sor- 
 row to the hair-dresser's, had arrived at the simple appel- 
 lative of " Empress," from her imaginary authority in the 
 Bohemia of Holland Street. 
 
 Eric Trevanion, whom the Empress had just admitted, was 
 a Bohemian of a class much commoner to~day than it was 
 at the time of which I write. He was, as it were, an ama- 
 teur Bohemian ; that is to say, he had private means of his 
 own, an ample allowance made him by his father, a wealthy 
 Cornish squire, enough to prevent the necessity of his sell- 
 ing his pictures to live ; and this was a most fortunate thing 
 for him, for though a royally good fellow, Eric was not much 
 of an artist, though he meant very well, and covered acres of 
 canvas, in his very superlative studio next door, with what he 
 called " Studies from the Impressionists."
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. 21 
 
 " Mine is an untamed genius," he used to say ; " I can't 
 trammel it with purity of line and rules of colour ; it is enough 
 for me to know that my work elevates the thoughts and 
 stimulates the imagination. The study of my pictures is a 
 search after the hidden beauties of the Undefined. Look at 
 that, for instance ; if you look carefully but comprehensively 
 at it for a little while and at a little distance, the subject 
 will form itself for you, and you will be astonished that you 
 did not see it at once. Since you are pressed for time I will 
 tell you. This is ' A Discord in Aniline Purples Jimmy 
 Whistler struck by lightning in the middle of a sneeze.' 
 The large canvas on the wall is a Theosophical picture. 
 I think the idea came to me in a trance, I'm not sure ; it 
 looks, I admit, as if it had been painted by my astral double 
 the morning after a drunk ; but the idea is very sublime and 
 Esoteric Buddhism-ish ' A Nocturne in Green Apple Color 
 Madame Blavatzky as a Priestess of Isis, pondering on the 
 " Now-ness of the When," whilst Mohini and A. P. Sinnettplay 
 three-card monte in the distance.' Some day I shall grow a 
 white curl and be appreciated at present I'm happy enough 
 as I am." 
 
 Such was the new-comer, the first arrival, a young man 
 dressed with scrupulous carelessness in the costume of Bo- 
 hemia. Son, as I have said, of a Cornish squire of consider- 
 able means, he had adopted art as a profession for the sake 
 of its associations and its freedom. Tall and dark, and quiet 
 in manner, no one ever knew whether he were serious or not, 
 or whether, like the ^Esthete of historic fiction who dined 
 with closed doors off beefsteak and onions, he laughed at 
 himself in the solitude of his own studio ; but everyone 
 liked him, for it was whispered that his right hand did many 
 a good action of which his left hand remained blissfully 
 ignorant, among the impecunious " boys " whose pictures he 
 would buy, ostensibly on commission for his father, and this 
 often with such a lordly disregard of their merits as paintings, 
 that, when Gabriel Hawleigh ate things that disagreed with 
 him, his grisliest nightmare was always one of incarceration
 
 22 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 in the elder Trevanion's picture-gallery. His especial cronies 
 were the Hawleighs, possibly on account of their proximity, 
 a proximity which lent itself to his continual appeals 
 "next door" to have buttons sewed on, or especial delicacies 
 cooked, or the wounds produced by his amateur carpentering 
 bandaged. To-night he made an early appearance, with 
 two chairs in one hand and in the other a basket. 
 
 " Do you want some more chairs ? " was his greeting. 
 " And look here ; the governor sent me up a couple of brace 
 of partridges yesterday, so I had them cooked and brought 
 them round. I get very hungry later on and require strong 
 meats, so I said to myself, ' Come early and bring your own 
 birds.' How are you all, anyhow ? " 
 
 " Now that's what I call having a proper regard for the 
 ethics of the situation," cried Gabriel. " Empress, here is 
 food ! Give me the chairs, and now let's greet him. How 
 are you, Mr. Trevanion ? so good of you to come ! " 
 
 " Not at all pleasure, 'm sure," replied the Cornishman, 
 gravely. " And whilst I think of it before the aristocracy 
 of Camden Hill turn up have you got a shoe lace ? 
 Hark ! some one approaches I shall go away and come 
 back fashionably late. How are you, Miss Easton ? have 
 you brought the latch-key ? I've left mine on my dressing- 
 table." 
 
 This last remark was made to the elder of two girls who 
 made their appearance at this moment, Sylvia and Eva 
 Easton, occupants of the floor above him next door, who 
 were engaged taking off their hats, smoothing their hair, and 
 giving themselves and one another little corrective pats and 
 punches all over, in a corner with Maye, to an accompani- 
 ment of those hysterical whispers and bursts of suppressed 
 merriment without which no properly constructed young 
 women can greet one another after an enforced separation of 
 say two hours. The elder, Sylvia Easton, was a student of 
 " Still Life," and had been remarkably successful at getting 
 five-pound pictures exhibited and sold in Suffolk Street, Pall 
 Mall, and Burlington House. Her sister Eva was recently
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. 23 
 
 home from a two-years' sojourn in the Conservatoire at 
 Leipsic, where she had devoted her time to the study of the 
 violin. That accounted for the papier mache fiddle-case and 
 roll of music which she dexterously concealed beneath her 
 cloak, with one end plainly visible to guard against its 
 being ignored. 
 
 " Let us go into the studio," said Mrs. Hawleigh, as an- 
 other arrival announced himself by " tiding at the pin ; " and 
 the little nucleus of " the party " stepped through the win- 
 dow. 
 
 " Great Scott ! Pouff ! ! " exclaimed Trevanion, flying to the 
 ropes of the skylights, which he opened to their fullest ex- 
 tent. "Gabriel, what are you doing ? " 
 
 The gaslights of " the flarer " were reinforced by half-a- 
 dozen candles disposed around the studio, and seated on the 
 floor before a brass Venetian lamp, Gabriel had succeeded 
 in producing a perfume which, not having the pen of a 
 Dante, I am powerless to describe. 
 
 " Well," said he, smiling apologetically, in defiance of the 
 contortions of his face from his nose outward, " I thought 
 this Venetian thing would look pretty, alight, but I can't get 
 it to work. By Jove ! if the merry Venetians always pro- 
 duce this effect when they try to illuminate the world, I 
 don't wonder that they seem rather to like the Grand Canal 
 at low water ! " 
 
 " Take it out ! Ouf ! " vociferated Eric. 
 
 And amid the derisive laughter of the band, Gabriel re- 
 moved his highly artistic but disagreeably pungent illumin- 
 ation ; whilst Maye lit some incense in a cinque-cento thurible 
 to neutralize the aromatic effects of his experiment. 
 
 Meanwhile the other guests begin to arrive. First Bernard 
 Rawlinson, a grave, handsome creature with picturesquely 
 dishevelled hair and an indumentary desinvolture peculiarly 
 his own. Rawlinson would have been an excellent artist if 
 he had not been a tolerable actor, and an excellent actor 
 had it not been for his talent as a painter. As it was, he 
 divided his time about equally between the studio and the
 
 24 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 stage, with the result that the one always interfered with the 
 other, and precluded his reaching the summit of excellence 
 in either. 
 
 He was followed by Dick Lindsay a funny man. That 
 was obvious the moment you saw him. His smooth-shaved 
 and rather ugly face never changed its expression in the 
 slightest degree ; but from behind his light, gold-rimmed 
 spectacles, his keen blue eyes seemed to watch everything 
 around him, and discover the hopelessly ludicrous in what- 
 ever presented itself within range of his observation. He 
 stood in the doorway and snuffed the gale suspiciously. 
 
 " Is anybody dead so far ? " said he. 
 
 " Not at present, " replied Sylvia Easton. 
 
 "Then I think I may venture," said he, stepping into the 
 studio. "What has happened ? " he queried. 
 
 " Gabriel has been making sacifice of a sweet savour, and 
 has just disappeared, like the ghost in the ' Antiquary, ' 
 ' with an aromatic perfume and a melodious twang. ' " 
 
 " Oh ! I thought someone had had an accident with the 
 chemicals;" and he subsided by Mrs. Hawleigh's side as 
 Gerome Markham, an artist attached to the permanent staff 
 of a comic paper, made his appearance. A small, fat man 
 with a large income and a supremely careworn and worried 
 expression, clothed in the most superlative evening dress, 
 with a gardenia in his button-hole. 
 
 " Apothecary ! an ounce of civet," cried Bernard Rawlinson, 
 as Markham stepped round on tip-toe, making his choicest 
 salaams to the company, and diffusing a faint, sweet perfume 
 of chypre as he went. 
 
 " Yes," said he, as if in answer, " I perceived a weird 
 aroma before I left Phillimore Gardens, and as the wind set 
 from this direction,. I thought you would appreciate my deli- 
 cacy in providing a counteractive." 
 
 Others followed him, and at last about a dozen genial 
 souls had shaken their hosts by the hand, had turned from 
 Gabriel more in sorrow than in anger, had congratulated 
 Markham on the picturesque splendour of his appearance,
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. 2$ 
 
 and joined in the tea, coffee, and gossip of the studio. 
 Suddenly Trevanion, who occupied the music-stool, swung 
 round and said: 
 
 " Where's the Princess ? " 
 
 " Echo answers where," said Gabriel. 
 
 "Then Echo is a liar or intoxicated," rejoined Lindsay, 
 " for Echo ought to answer ' cess. ' ' 
 
 " But where is she ? " persisted Trevanion. 
 
 " I saw her to-day," said Eva Easton, " and she said she 
 was coming. " 
 
 " I think," said Rawlinson, " that the President's dining 
 with her ; " and at this intelligence every tongue was hushed, 
 for " the President " dining in Holland Street was an event 
 that brought throbs to every Bohemian heart. And yet it 
 
 was not uncommon, for Sir George B , President of the 
 
 Royal Something-or-other of Painters, with his fine, hand- 
 some face and silver-gray hair, was " a boy" among "the 
 boys," and, often looked in on the colony, and smoked cigar- 
 ettes whilst he made suggestions that accounted for many 
 an admission to the holy precincts of the Academy on Var- 
 nishing day. 
 
 " Well, he's in good company," said Mrs. Hawleigh, " and 
 Sir George is likely to stay there." 
 
 " No ! " said a voice on the threshold ; and most of the 
 men rose to receive the great man himself, who stood smiling 
 for an instant at the colony, and then bent low over the hand 
 of Mrs. Hawleigh. 
 
 " May I come to the party ? " said he, as he settled him- 
 self by Mrs. Hawleigh's side. 
 
 " Rather ! " said Gabriel. 
 
 " Coffee ? " said Maye. 
 
 "Thanks both of you," said Sir George. 
 
 " I come as an ambassador or advance-guard," continued 
 he, "to say that the Princess Daphne will be here directly; 
 she stayed to interview someone for a moment, and sent me 
 on there's a ring ! Perhaps it's she. " Maye rose and went 
 quickly to the door; the next moment Miss Daphne Preault
 
 2 6 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 called unanimously by the colony " The Princess " stood 
 in the drawing-room window and looked round the studio. 
 The men rose again with one accord, and a little murmur of 
 satisfied " Ah's " went round. 
 
 That Miss Preault should have been dubbed " The Princess 
 Daphne " never caused a moment's surprise to any who saw 
 her. Who she was, and where she came from, no one knew 
 for absolutely certain ; and the combined and persistent curi- 
 osity of the entire female colony had not as yet elucidated 
 the problem. Meanwhile they bowed before her ; and though 
 she often seemed unconscious of her empire, the sceptre she 
 swayed was that of a rule which, all agreed, was highly be- 
 neficent to her subjects, and very genuine indeed. 
 
 A dim rumour existed in the colony to the effect that the 
 Princess Daphne was a Creole. No one, however, dreamt 
 of pressing the idea heavily upon her, and when suggested 
 lightly, she would equally lightly set it aside. Since then, 
 however, I, the writer of this narrative, have been far afield, 
 and among the beauties who stroll of a summer's evening 
 along Carondelet Street, or on the Levee, or in the old Rue 
 Royale, in New Orleans, or who lounge on the piazzas of Baton 
 Rouge and Mobile and such semi-tropical cities of the New 
 World I have seen many a finely moulded quasi-Amazonic 
 figure that reminded me, as nothing else has ever done, of 
 Daphne Preault. The reader may as well be let into the 
 secret that a Creole she was. 
 
 Daphne Preault was tall, or at any rate held herself, as 
 many women have the trick of doing, so as to convey that 
 impression ; and this dignity of stature was still further en- 
 hanced by the grand proportions of her body, by the half- 
 Spanish lines of the neck and shoulders, the finely rounded 
 bust and non-atrophied waist, the curves at the hips, and the 
 purity of the lines down to her feet, which, like her hands, 
 were not too small. Her hands especially were a study for 
 the artist or sculptor; not too small, as I have said, and of a 
 respectable breadth, the flesh firm and lightly colored, the 
 thumb not weak, as it so often is in a woman's hand, the
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. 2 J 
 
 fingers smooth and slightly tapering to a delicate squareness 
 at the tips, the nails long and curved, the finger-tips rounded 
 on their surfaces into that little cushion of flesh, sure sign of 
 sensitiveness in a hand ; the whole exquisitely flexible, the 
 
 " Gentile morbida leggiadra mano 
 Cui fer le proprie mani d'Aurora * 
 
 of Paolo Rossi. And, above all, her head, which for very 
 fear I have left until last ! A head not too small, covered with 
 masses of hair that would have been black but for the red- 
 dish lights that flashed through it when she moved, hair that 
 came low on a broad, clear forehead, bounded by straight 
 and rather heavy, dark eyebrows, from beneath which a pair 
 of great dark-brown eyes looked straight into one's soul. 
 The nose straight as we see it on a Greek coin, the mouth 
 firm, but finely, almost sensuously, curved, the jaw square 
 and strong, the whole complexion pale rather than coloured 
 and there you have the portrait of the Princess Daphne. 
 Yes ! to the cognoscenti she could never be anything but a 
 Creole ; but nature had been kinder to her than to most of 
 her race, she had not, in producing perfection of form, ex- 
 hausted her creative energy, but had endowed this imperial 
 woman with a brain no whit behind her physical develop- 
 ment ; and though she was equally amiable to the entire 
 colony among which she lived, her especial cronies realized 
 and fully realized that they were lucky indeed. 
 
 "Am I too fashionably late to expect absolution?" said 
 she, as she surveyed the group, " or has Sir George prepared 
 a gracious forgiveness for me ? " 
 
 " The Princess can do no wrong sta felice alia casa" re- 
 plied Gabriel, gallantly, as the girl stepped into the studio 
 with a little laugh, and greeted the company with a series of 
 " nods and becks and wreathed smiles." 
 
 " I have been doing combat with our natural foe, the art- 
 dealer," said she. " The particular specimen of to-night 
 thought to catch me in a good humour after food, and buy 
 a miscellaneous lot by gaslight, for ready but insufficient
 
 2 g THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 cash. I am proud to say that I resisted, and told him to 
 come back to-morrow, when I shall probably be suffering 
 from this evening's dissipation, and be in too bad a temper 
 to make him any concessions." 
 
 " There is no doubt about it," said Bernard Rawlinson ; 
 " if Art-dealers were not as a class well, let us say stupid, 
 they would buy pictures on gastronomic and barometric 
 principles. Take my own. case, for instance : ' Metiri se 
 quemque suo modulo w"hat's-his-name,' as the classic has it. 
 If I have looked in on Gabriel in the morning, and feasted 
 on half-cooked muffins, I spend the afternoon meditating an 
 essay on the meaning of the word ' Remorse.' At such 
 times the dealer has no chance ; nor has he any luck when 
 the weather is on my nerves; but if it is a fine day and I 
 have had tea at the Princess's, I become kindly disposed 
 towards him, and take his paltry shekels in exchange for 
 works of art worth treble in my estimation, and merely 
 smile a wan smile of pity when he declares that he is ruin- 
 ing himself to save me from starvation, on strictly philan- 
 thropic principles. To paraphrase Byron, ' Now Barabbas 
 was an art-dealer.' " 
 
 " But why talk of funerals, physic, and art-dealers ? " cried 
 Lindsay ; " let us rather make music. Miss Trevethick, 
 won't you twankle on the harpsichord for us ? " 
 
 " Certainly," replied Maye ; " I'll play you a little thing of 
 my own. I call it ' Funeral March of the Hanging Com- 
 mittee,' and I am going to dedicate it by special permission 
 
 to Sir George B ; " and she began to run her fingers over 
 
 the keys, first in playful, catchy fantasy, drifting thence into 
 pure tunefulness, and ending with a grand, rich fugue that 
 left the assembled crowd wondering at its meaning, so 
 strange and suggestive was the leit-motif that crept into the 
 harmonies at every moment, or anon would stand out by itself 
 in a bit of exquisite melody. When she finished, a dead si- 
 lence had fallen on the gathering, broken only by the Prin- 
 cess's ejaculation of, " Thanks, dear ; it's very sweet of you
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. 2 Q 
 
 to exhaust yourself like that for our selfish, but appreciative 
 edification." 
 
 " What I like about Miss Trevethick's music," remarked 
 Lindsay, "is that she gives no chances to the social fiend, 
 the man who* beats time, or whistles the air if he knows it, 
 or insists on turning over the music." 
 
 " Poor Lindsay ! " said Markham ; " one would think he 
 had been himself a sufferer, though I doubt whether he 
 knows the difference between a piano and a penny-whistle." 
 
 " True ! I have not suffered from the musical fiend ; my 
 betes noires are the Story Fiend and the Introduction Fiend. 
 Some day I shall write an essay on Social Fiends, and clear 
 off old scores. Yet, after all, the Social Fiend is only a 
 product of high civilization and cultivation, and will in- 
 crease, I suppose, rather than decrease." 
 
 " Explain ! Define ! Speech ! Speech ! " was the cry ; 
 and Lindsay, after looking helplessly around for a few 
 seconds, thus held forth : 
 
 " What I mean by my introduction," said he, " is that the 
 fiendishness of the Social Fiend generally results from the 
 perversion of some high quality, which, kept within proper 
 limits, would inspire our respect, e.g., musical, literary, or 
 dramatic talent. 
 
 " The social fiend is of two classes or declensions the 
 active and the passive ; or perhaps it would better express my 
 meaning if I were to say, transitive and neuter. To the 
 former fiend one stands in some measure in the light of a 
 foil ; one's presence, and to a certain extent one's coopera- 
 tion is necessary to him ; one inflicts him on one's self, so to 
 speak, and consequently he may be avoided with care, and 
 discretion, and practice, and presence of mind. The latter, 
 on the other hand, is a fiend all by himself; he can sit alone 
 and exercise his fiendishness, disseminating it quasi-uncon- 
 sciously all around him ; he cannot be avoided ; in his case, 
 absence of body is preferable to presence of mind; you 
 must get up and go away ! 
 
 " Thus much by way of introduction. We can now, in the
 
 3Q THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 words of the classic, ' cut the dialogue, and come to the 
 figures.' 
 
 "On mature reflection I think that the most drastic and 
 damnable kind of musico-social fiend is the man who taps with 
 his foot when music is being played. The man" (his brother 
 cadet) who hums the tune in an undertone, or gently whistles 
 an accompaniment, pales into insignificance before him. 
 The affliction arises from a diseased musical ear, a patholog- 
 ical condition, I believe, unknown to the aurist. .1 once 
 knew one of this class who tried to beat time to Wotan's 
 fifty-minute recitative in the ' Siegfried ' of Wagner (the sin 
 was its own punishment he was carried out in convulsions) ; 
 but it is the slow waltz or quick march that principally draws 
 forth his natural corruption. An air is being played ; sud- 
 denly you become aware of a little measured thud on the 
 brain repeated at regular intervals ; you tap your ear and 
 reconcentrate your attention : in vain ! the tap, tap, tap 
 seems to become a kind of devil's tatoo on your inmost 
 soul : the rest of the audience also gradually wake to the 
 fact, and a scared expression spreads itself around, whilst 
 the entire assistance ignores the music, and begins search- 
 ing for the fiend. At last you find him, a mild-mannered 
 youth with a wisp of hair bristling at the crown of his head, 
 with large hands and a pale face absorbed, concentrated 
 in the music ; his right foot is merrily accompanying the 
 melody ; he is as unconscious as a young organ-grinder of 
 the grief that he is causing ; he doesn't see the cyclonic 
 glares directed at him, not he ! He is only mildly surprised 
 thatjhe alone applauds at the end of the performance ; the 
 rest of the audience is only waiting for the end of his, and 
 merely regards the musician as a kind of accomplice. The 
 tapper has ' queered the show,' but he doesn't realize the 
 fact. The only person who is similarly self-satisfied is his 
 brother fiend who has been softly whistling the air between 
 his teeth all the time ; and this improvised drum-and-fife 
 band forms a kind of link of brotherhood hitherto unrec- 
 ognized between them. These fiends have, as I say,
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. 3 1 
 
 fallen from a high but uncultivated musical taste, like the 
 fiend who insists upon turning the leaves for the pianistc. 
 His radius of iniquity is often more circumscribed ; it may 
 extend only to the lady playing, her chaperone who doubts 
 his capacity, and the man who wishes he could perform this 
 office for the fair #/-//.?/. if the leaf-turner is sure of himself 
 it is all right for the others ; but as a rule he isn't. He only 
 does it ' to show off ' ; and his anxious, conscience-stricken 
 face, as he stares blankly at the page, wondering where the 
 deuce and all the player has got to, gradually betrays his 
 mental state to the audience, and they sit writhing with ap- 
 prehension till the artiste makes a convulsive bob of the 
 head, the fiend makes a wild dive, and it is five to one he 
 drops a leaf on the floor and replaces it upside down. If he 
 doesn't the audience breathes freely for another five minutes, 
 and so on at intervals, until the fiend perspires, apologizes, 
 is frigidly thanked, and retires into his pristine insignifi- 
 cance to reflect upon the impression he has produced. 
 
 " There are other musical fiends that we all know : the 
 man who insists on being told the name of the piece played, 
 and the man who tells him wrong ; the man who, in the 
 dead silence that follows a performance, is heard remarking 
 that he heard Rubinstein play or Sims Reeves sing that 
 particular thing ; the man who tells the lady performer, at 
 the conclusion of a carefully learnt English song, that he is 
 ' so fond of those weird little Arabic chaunts. 3 And so on 
 and so on and so on ! 
 
 " The musical fiend, of whatever sort, is the best specimen 
 of the neuter declension. The most perfect exemplification 
 of the transitive class are the story fiends, whether active or 
 passive. Among the active ones, of course I will not refer 
 to the retailer of ' chestnuts,' the man who tells you the orig- 
 inal story for telling him which Cain killed Abel ; or the 
 man who tells a story inside out, i.e., gives you the point 
 seriously, and wonders that you don't laugh as he concludes 
 with the introduction thereto ; or the man who tells you a 
 story that you know of old, and leaving out the point alto-
 
 32 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 gather, gets mad when you bring him safely onto the track 
 once more. All these are too common for the esoteric pro- 
 fundity of this sermon. The story fiend I hate is the man 
 who with much pantomime tells you a pointless old yarn for 
 the purpose of impressing with his wit and eloquence a girl 
 across the room whom he hopes is looking at him and taking 
 in his performance. 
 
 " Similarly do I hate certain story fiends of the recipient 
 variety. For instance, the converse of the last fiend, who, 
 whilst you are telling him your latest and best, is making 
 eyes across the room, and gauging the effect upon her, and 
 when you come to the point where you should be interrupted 
 by a smile, and wait for it accordingly, turns an absent- 
 minded, lack-lustre gaze upon you and ejaculates spasmodi- 
 cally, ' Oh ! ah ! yes ! Haha ! very good and what became 
 of the boy?' or some torn-foolery of that sort. Only one 
 degree removed from him is the man who, instead of listen- 
 ing to your yarn, keeps his eyes fixed on the ground about 
 six feet in front of him, racking his brain to think of a story 
 on his own account, and at the conclusion of your effort, 
 instead of grinning appreciatively, chips in like an east wind 
 chased by lightning with ' Ah ! yes, and that reminds me of 
 a story,' etc., etc., etc. Ugh ! there's a brute for you ! And 
 yet how common ! 
 
 "Then you have the fiend who tells you a long yarn, 
 usually concerning his own prowess in the Camp of Mars 
 and the Court of Venus, when you are dying to skip over 
 unconcernedly and take the seat just vacated by her side. 
 You are like the Pool of Bethesda ; whilst the descended 
 angel troubles you, someone else steps in and reaps the 
 benefit. 
 
 " And again, what a fruitful field for abstract and experi- 
 mental objurgation is the introduction fiend the man who 
 insists on being introduced to you, and the man who insists 
 on your introducing him to So-and-So ! the man who grasps 
 your hand with an eighty-one ton crunch and says, 'We 
 have a mutual friend in Mrs. X. ; she has often spoken to
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. 33 
 
 me of you.' You have never heard of Mrs. X., and don't 
 believe in her existence, but you daren't say so, for fear that 
 he will queer you with some pleasant acquaintance whose 
 name you haven't caught ; so you put your head on one side 
 like a contemplative parrot, and say, ' Oh yes ! And how 
 was Mrs. X. when last you saw her?' praying inwardly 
 that you are not, both of you, constructively, liars. 
 
 " And then the man who says genially, ' Oh ! is this Mr. 
 X ? ' in much the tone of voice in which Uriah's wife is said 
 to have remarked, on her first introduction to David, ' Is 
 this the youth who slew the great Goliath ? ' Or the man 
 who says treacherously, ' Oh ! Mr. Z., I've heard so much of 
 you ; ' you break into a cold perspiration and wonder what 
 he's heard about you, and from whom. But, good heavens ! 
 I've been lecturing for half an hour believe me, I apologize 
 somebody else do something to wipe out the memory of 
 my harangue ! " 
 
 Lindsay stopped, and the laughter which had rippled 
 through his discourse culminated in a storm of delighted 
 applause, in the midst of which Maye set forth the more 
 solid baked meats, and the company proceeded to picnic. 
 
 Whilst they ate, Bernard Rawlinson recited to them, and 
 at the conclusion of the little repast, Gabriel, with much 
 pomp and circumstance, asked the Princess on behalf of the 
 men to permit them on behalf of the ladies to smoke. 
 
 " Well," replied she, " of course it is understood that we 
 all dislike smoke exceedingly, and regard the use of tobacco 
 as wholly vile ; but on this single occasion we will not only 
 permit, but countenance, the proceeding." 
 
 So saying she produced a silver cigarette-case and select- 
 ing a cigarette for herself handed it to Sylvia Easton, who 
 did the same and passed it on to the other girls. This was 
 carried through with the utmost gravity, and the symposium 
 continued amid the soft blue fumes of the weed nicotian, 
 unsupported, however, by Sir George and Mrs. Hawleigh, 
 who had slipped away softly, for fear of breaking up the 
 party by their departure. 
 3
 
 34 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 It was one of those delightful evenings in which everyone 
 does something. The two Eastons played a duet, and after 
 that Gabriel and Maye were persuaded to do likewise. 
 When Gabriel played in public it was a thing to hear, for it 
 seldom took place : his fiddle was to him his confessional, 
 his confessor, and his confession ; and if we are to accept 
 Neil Gow's axiom, that " a mon's a player when he gar him- 
 sel' greet wi' his fiddle," Gabriel Hawleigh was a player in- 
 deed ; for his playing was the very soul, the very agony of 
 music, and often, when he had a melancholy fit on him, he 
 would bring tears to the eyes of his small but appreciative 
 audience, consisting, as a rule, of Maye and Mrs. Hawleigh. 
 
 To-night, however, he was in his more enthusiastic, fiend- 
 ish mood, and tore out of his fiddle a brilliant suite of wild 
 Czardas, drawing Maye irresistibly along with him as she 
 played the piano accompaniment, and winding up with a 
 wild, triumphant solo of barbaric melody, that roused his 
 audience as if it had been a thunderstorm of harmonies. 
 
 This solo terminated in a roar of enthusiasm, during 
 which he recovered his senses, as it were, and when it sub- 
 sided he seized the opportunity to fall on one knee before 
 the Princess Daphne, saying : 
 
 " Like the King's minstrel I crave a boon, Princess." 
 
 " It is granted, Ser Menestrel what is it ? " 
 
 " That you sing for us." 
 
 " Oh, you wretch !" exclaimed she. "If I had guessed 
 but I've promised, so I suppose I must ; " and amid the 
 delighted acclamations of the crowd, Daphne Preault moved 
 to the piano. 
 
 "After that gorgeous performance of Gabriel and Maye's, 
 I can't sing any of my French repertoire to you ; here is a 
 little Cuban suite of melodies, in the Cuban dialect; it is 
 supposed to be a triumphal song of a woman's self-sacrifice." 
 
 She began in a low, soft minor key, a weird, half-monot- 
 onous melody of which every note seemed to thrill the very 
 souls of the listeners ; then, just as the depth of despair 
 seemed to have been reached in the music, the major inver-
 
 A BOHEMIAN SOIREE. 35 
 
 sion of the chord was heard in the bass, the treble took it 
 up, and the lament became a grand, almost military chaunt, 
 that ended abruptly with an unheralded minor harmony. 
 Daphne Pre'ault had the pure, rich contralto of the south, 
 and threw herself into her music in a way that used to make 
 her listeners tremble. Like Gabriel, she seldom flung the 
 glories of her art before the public, which made it all the 
 more an event to remember when she did sing ; and to-night 
 undoubtedly she eclipsed herself. 
 
 On one at least of the company she had made an impres- 
 sion not likely to be soon effaced : he sat on a long, low, 
 carved chest, with his head resting in his clasped hands as 
 he leaned against the wall, his soul far away on the wings of 
 the music, forgetful of everything save the grand orgy of 
 sound. When the music ceased his eyes turned with an 
 expression of dumb wonder in the direction of the singer, 
 and, attracted perhaps by the intensity of his gaze, her eyes 
 sought his. The Princess Daphne resumed her seat quietly. 
 The man was Eric Trevanion. 
 
 And so, amid music and conversation, light tobacco and 
 light refreshments, the evening wore on. To an historian 
 much latitude and meanness and betrayal of confidence are 
 allowed, but I do not propose to divulge the tale which was 
 told by the clock as the last guests Gerome Markham and 
 Dick Lindsay concealed about their persons a stirrup-cup 
 proffered by Gabriel, who then, turning out the gas and 
 contemplatively munching a biscuit, wandered up to bed. 
 The Princess had been the last girl-guest to go, escorted by 
 Eric Trevanion ; and then Maye Trevethick had softly and 
 silently vanished away, leaving a small male group to talk 
 unrestrained " shop " into the small hours of the morning. 
 
 The Bohemian soirte was ended, and the Empress, on 
 the following morning, expressed a hope that there might 
 not very soon be another.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 UNE MAfTRESSE FEMME. 
 
 FROM Holland Street, London, to Forty-first Street, New 
 York City, is a far cry, three thousand miles or more, but 
 though we have transported ourselves, Aladdin-like, across 
 the site of the submerged continent of which Ancient Egypt 
 was a colony, and Yucatan a young dependency, according 
 to Ignatius Donnelly, and have reached the commercial 
 capital of that "great aristocratico-oligarchical democracy 
 where all men are equal and none of the women," we are 
 still in Bohemia, though it is Bohemia of a very different 
 order from that which we have left behind us in the old 
 world. 
 
 The American autumn was much like the English one in 
 temperature ; only its outward and visible signs were differ- 
 ent. In the squares, the asphalt was strewn thick with 
 broad golden and bronze leaves, and the water drawn off 
 from the fountain-basins had left hideously bare the roots of 
 the lilies and lotuses and other semi-tropical water-plants, 
 whose flowers had been so good to look upon during the 
 empty summer months, and whose leaves, decaying, were 
 watched with almost vulture-like impatience by the municipal 
 gardeners, who were waiting for their death to lift bodily the 
 great square boxes of roots, to be put away for the winter, or 
 to cover them with the fallen leaves. In Central Park, and 
 in the open lots up beyond One Hundred and Fortieth 
 Street, the crimson awns of the sumach were beginning to 
 bow reverence to the autumn winds, and save and except 
 that now and then summer seemed to have left a day behind ; 
 and to have come back to look for it, the new world, like 
 the old, was preparing for winter. 
 
 36
 
 UNE MAfTKESSE FEMME. 37 
 
 In one of the lower rooms of a house on Forty-first Street, 
 whose number lay in the first hundred, but is immaterial 
 to our story, the morning light streams in upon a small, sup- 
 ple figure which lies curled up on a low divan, a divan so 
 colossal in its proportions that the figure looks even smaller 
 than it is, and illuminates a picture that tells its own story 
 to the inquisitive sunbeams. The room, which is large, 
 though furnished in the main with the faded elegance that 
 announces the lodging-house, shows by a few of its more 
 prominent objects that its occupant has come thither from 
 haunts of luxury and taste. The observant eye can pick out 
 at a glance the objects that are the property of the woman 
 who lies on the divan in the reckless abandon of sleep, relics 
 of former years when her footsteps fell in softer places. 
 An inlaid piano by Steinway, a screen of rare Japanese 
 brocade, a proof-etching or two. a masterpiece of Meis- 
 sonier, and an unfinished sketch by an artist whose name 
 gives market value to a line drawn across a sheet of mill- 
 board, some matchless Satsuma and Kaga porcelain, and 
 some scraps of rare stuffs thrown across chairs of bastard 
 design, in a vain attempt to conceal their illegitimacy all 
 bespeak the artiste, the woman of refined taste. The floor 
 is covered with a matting of scented Indian grasses, that 
 fills the air with a quaint, pungent odour, and over it are 
 strewn tattered but glorious Persian and Turkish rugs. 
 
 But what catches the eye and holds the senses, taking 
 prisoner the imagination, is the divan on which the little 
 immobile live thing rests. It is very large and very low, 
 covered in brown satin and furs, and cumbered with huge 
 cushions of varied but harmoniously combined coloured silks. 
 A great sheet of rich brocade is drawn in a crumpled mass 
 to a corner, and is falling on the ground over the edge of 
 the divan ; the cushions are doubled up and punched into 
 numberless odd shapes, their corners sticking out in all 
 directions ; and blottie among them is the small, supple, 
 sleeping form of the woman, whose individuality harmonizes 
 to admiration with her surroundings. Her attitude, which
 
 38 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 would strike the ignorant observer as intensely uncomfort- 
 able, so curled and twisted does it seem, looks, in her case, per- 
 fectly natural and easy. She is but half undressed, and must 
 have fallen asleep almost unconsciously, when, in the conflict 
 of Morpheus and Eros, exhaustion had overtaken her una- 
 wares. At least it appears so ; every line of the dormant 
 figure and its minutest details reveal a delicious lassitude. 
 One little foot, in a slipper of gold brocade, rests on the 
 floor ; the other slipper has fallen off, and the foot is drawn 
 up under the figure. The light silk covering has slipped 
 away, revealing a stocking of open-worked gold-green silk 
 stretched over curves to which it clings as if fearful of mar- 
 ring their beauty by the slightest suspicion of a wrinkle, and 
 heightens the dazzling tints of a glimpse of the satin-like 
 skin, that sleep has indiscreetly revealed above the stocking. 
 
 It is only a glimpse, for a " mysteriette " of pink silk cov- 
 ers the rest of the figure, without hiding its delicate, sensu- 
 ous curves only making the picture more indefinite and 
 more alluring by adding the subtle charm of the unseen to 
 charms which the imagination grasps without difficulty. 
 
 She lies deep among the cushions, her head thrown back 
 in a mass of shiny hair of a bronzed, burnt gold, which, 
 uniting with the purple brown of the divan, makes an ex- 
 quisite background for the pale shell-pink of her skin. The 
 stream of light which steals into the darkened room lies in a 
 solid ray across the divan, shedding over the sleeping figure 
 a glow which seems not to illuminate it, but to be shed by 
 the figure itself upon the surrounding brocades; and so, a 
 perfectly natural effect of light seems to become a weird, 
 spectral mystery. The dead stillness of the world, the halo 
 environing the sleeping woman, the dim light pervading all 
 else in the room, combine to make a picture which embodies 
 all that there is of sensuous poesy in real life. 
 
 The delicate brows, the finely-curved lips, the curved nos- 
 trils, and subtly-rounded chin, betray the woman's Oriental 
 origin ; and if any doubt remained on the point it is dis- 
 pelled when, without any start or visible effort of awakening,
 
 UNE MAJTRESSE FEMME. 39 
 
 Mahmoure di Zulueta opens her grand, brown eyes and, with 
 a movement of intense, unconscious longing, stretches out 
 her arms to the empty air, and encountering naught save a 
 tumbled cushion, grasps a fold of it with a little feverish 
 clutch as, using her arm lever-wise, she gives her whole body 
 a comprehensive voluptuous twist that hides the scrap of 
 skin that dazzled the sunbeam, beneath the falling folds of 
 silk, and sinks back into the cushions with a scarce satisfied 
 sigh. As she does so her hand encounters something hid- 
 den among the cushions : she draws it forth and recognizes 
 it with a smile of happy recollection. It is a portrait it 
 had been her last thought as she sank to sleep, and is her 
 first on waking ; and as she holds it before her, it brings a 
 warmer tint to her cheek, a brighter glow to her dark eyes. 
 The face before her, be it by reason of the photographer's 
 art or of the individuality of the original, is one of great 
 beauty, intense, delicate, and very youthful, so youthful 
 indeed that at a first glance it might be taken for that of a 
 mere boy, but on closer inspection one discovers in it a firm* 
 ness, enhanced by the high intelligence of the brow; and 
 the woman gazing at the picture through her half-closed eyes 
 sees there the self hidden behind the mask. To all else he 
 may be and is what he chooses ; to her his inmost being is 
 revealed, and through the changeless, senseless reflection, 
 she sees the thousand flashes of the master passion which 
 she, and she alone, has bred within him a passion of which 
 he had always laughingly declared himself incapable. 
 
 And concerning the woman herself, the supple Eastern 
 woman with the strange Eastern name Mahmoure di 
 Zulueta ? There is, I know, something inexpressibly tedious 
 in the " previous histories " of heroes and heroines of 
 romance. Perhaps I ought to have made a former chapter 
 of that of Mahmoure', for it is quite quaint enough to spur a 
 biographer to his highest effort in this particular branch of 
 natural history. I am not going to enter into a discussion of 
 whether her history was stranger than her nature, or whether 
 her nature was stranger than her history ; whether her his-
 
 4O THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 tory was the result of her nature, or rice versd. Without the 
 remotest tendency to mediocrity she was neither very good 
 nor very bad ; she was always rather both, and often very 
 much one of them; the world being divided, admittedly, into 
 men, women and Mahmoure di Zulueta. Probably it was an 
 effect of her home training, the tender influences of a father 
 and mother who worshipped her, that prevented the bad in 
 her from developing to its fullest extent. It is thus that 
 many great characters in history are spoilt, are, as it were, 
 still-born. Without the refining influences of her home 
 Mahmoure' would have been historic, but whether as a Val- 
 liere, a Brinvilliers, a Bradamante, or a Lola Montez, far be 
 it from the present historian to hazard a conjecture. 
 
 Her early years were monotonous, spent between the 
 English home where she found her level in gentle, common- 
 place family affection, and the continental conservatoire where 
 she laboured from an early age for the development of the 
 talent that should some day make her famous; for her father, 
 himself an artist of great enthusiasm and judgment, two 
 rarely concomitant attributes, strained his every resource to 
 fit her for the position which he felt she was bound to 
 attain. She rewarded him for all his bitter struggles (and 
 God alone knows what privations he had endured for her) in 
 the usual way. Developed to womanhood at an age when 
 most of her sex are hardly out of the nursery, she chose to 
 fancy herself in love ; and she married, when barely fifteen, 
 a complicated concentration of the lowest qualities peculiar 
 to half-a-dozen nationalities. The name of this mongrel 
 was di Zulueta. A friend of the family, expert in variegated 
 genealogies, asserted that his father was a Greek and his 
 mother an Italian, that he was born on board a Spanish ship 
 in French waters, and was a naturalized American citizen 
 domiciled in England ! 
 
 It is hardly worth while to attempt the impossible, or to 
 describe the abysmal depths of blackguardism to which this 
 gutter-bred cur had sunk by the sheer specific gravity of his 
 own cowardly vileness ; but he oozes into my narrative at
 
 UNE MAITRESSE FEMME. 41 
 
 this point, for he married this child for not only in years, 
 but in everything else save physique, she was a child ; and 
 thus her first folly, the launch of her "inconsequent " career 
 (in the Balzacian sense), was committed. Art for art's sake, 
 which might have been to her a gracious, generous protec- 
 tress, was thrust aside, and the first step in her progress was 
 taken. 
 
 And what a progress hers should have been with the ma- 
 terials at her command ! A gorgeous voice, of gre?at range 
 and power, and, above all, of that quality so rare, a perfect 
 sympathy that one gift of blood and race without which the 
 finest voice becomes " as sounding brass, or tinkling cym- 
 bals." Fantastic but dazzling personal beauty, the matchless 
 health of a perfect constitution, were all factors in a person- 
 ality that should echo her fame from world to world and 
 the first exercise of her will had been to fling the whole 
 treasure of herself into the grasp of a foul-mouthed, under- 
 bred ruffian. 
 
 The first era of her life may be said to have commenced 
 with her marriage, which, though uneventful in itself, was a 
 fitting probation for what was to follow. He was a hard task- 
 master to his child-wife, but, brute though he was, he treated 
 from motives of policy his golden goose with some show 
 of affection : but his coarseness killed the goose. Had he 
 been a clever rascal he might have kept the girl ; as it was 
 he never spared her, feeling sure of the obedience she 
 dumbly gave, never looking deeper when some greater exac- 
 tion than usual struck a flash from the highly-charged per- 
 sonality he was trifling with. He was consequently not a 
 little astonished when, one night, in the presence of her 
 father, she remarked coolly and with no passion or quiver 
 in her voice : 
 
 " I am not going to live with you any longer." 
 
 Her father, who had refused hrs sanction to the marriage, 
 and loathed her husband, still did what he believed to be his 
 duty, and urged her to reconsider her decision. 
 
 " Better let me go now, when there is no man in the case.
 
 42 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 If I wait six months longer, there will be," she had said, 
 calmly but quite characteristically. 
 
 It was not long before this that she had made her debut 
 on the stage, and that debut had created a furore. Men 
 about town had but one topic of conversation this new girl 
 with the great, wondering, innocent eyes; and a Great Per- 
 sonage (as novelists love to call libertines of the blood-royal), 
 on his first visit to the theatre, had sent for her. She had 
 no idea of the importance of the attention, and kept the G. 
 P. so long waiting that the G. P. indignantly retired. This 
 was much commented upon in the theatre, and doubtless 
 did not escape the observation of intelligent managers. 
 Throughout this period that husband of hers was her exe- 
 crated monster ; but for her father's sake she endured the 
 burden, until month after month added feathers by the ton 
 to her load, and at last the result came in the calm, dispas- 
 sionate words that terminated her married life. 
 
 With the advent of this relief departed every moral reserve, 
 and her vagabond, Bohemian imagination began to expand. 
 She had no lover and wanted none later on she had lovers 
 and still wanted none : liberty seemed so glorious. Experi- 
 ence had taught her that man would steal away from her this 
 newly attained possession ; and the word " Freedom " was 
 emblazoned upon the oriflamme that led her into and out of 
 every scrape that ornamented her life. She had vowed 
 never to be enthralled again ; and she all but kept her 
 vow. 
 
 She became the fashion. Her little rooms, just close 
 enough to Belgrave Square to swear by, and avoid the ambi- 
 guity of the euphemism, " South Belgravia," were the cher- 
 ished haunt of the smartest men in town. I say " men " 
 advisedly, for no " man " could boast one jot of possession. 
 Her own income gave her independence, and she laughed at 
 the Richelieus and Rochesters of \h& foyer and the coulisses. 
 Of course, one or two men more enterprising than the rest 
 sought by every means to capture what, by reason of its 
 impossibility of capture, appeared a hundredfold more
 
 UNE MAlTRESSE FEMME. 43 
 
 attractive than it possibly was, and by force of constant 
 pressure came very near breaking, if not wearing away, the 
 stone ; but, on the whole, there was no getting over the fact 
 that Mahmourd remained, through sheer disinclination, her 
 own mistress and nobody else's. She had plenty of " epi- 
 sodes" but no "histories." 
 
 Why follow her amid the thousand scenes of passion, real 
 and pretended, that, like every beautiful theatrical Bohe- 
 mienne, she passed through amused sometimes, excited 
 sometimes, disgusted often, but touched, never. She kept 
 the foremost rank in her profession until, weary of the reit- 
 eration of unsought conquest, she sought the New World. 
 With all London at her feet, she travelled three thousand 
 miles to find the Pygmalion who should quicken this worldly 
 Galatea of European Bohemia. 
 
 Just before she left London, a celebrated journalist, who 
 led a light-hearted life of libel and lickings, said to her : 
 
 " Dear child, why don't you "marry Lord Blank ? Acting 
 as the Countess of Blank over the water, you would make 
 your fortune besides, it would be such fun writing para- 
 graphs about it ; I haven't had such a lovely chance since 
 my wife bolted with D ." 
 
 " Thanks," she had replied ; " sorry I can't oblige you 
 but never mind. Get my obituary ready for an emergency, 
 and I'll leave you my diary to work from." 
 
 Thus she reached New York; and there, shutting herself 
 up, she abandoned the world which she found took such 
 vast amusement out of her, and gave her none in return, 
 living a life of the closest retirement, a retirement from 
 which she only emerged from time to time with some old 
 friend of her earlier days. 
 
 By this time Mahmoure's age was well, never mind ; I 
 didn't intend to begin the sentence. 
 
 And thus four years sped by, during which she worked 
 hard and successfully as ever. She was the very incarna- 
 tion of health, the wonder of all who saw her, so fresh and 
 girlish was she ; for all the world judged her life of which
 
 44 THE PKTNCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 they knew nothing to be what it might have been had she 
 so willed it. For in the New World, as in the Old, she 
 inspired deep, wild passions which to her were mere patho- 
 logical curiosities. She had caprices, of course ! but they 
 were not what she wanted ; and at last she became resigned 
 and made up her mind that love, the crowning joy of woman- 
 hood, was not to be hers. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The end came terribly and suddenly. The wild, irregular 
 years of artist life succeeded at last in undermining the 
 gigantic constitution, and one day, in the middle of a peal of 
 laughter, she fell to the ground, dyeing the white frou-frou of 
 laces, the folds of silk, her white satin couch, and the 
 masses of heavy exotic flowers with which she loved to deck 
 herself, with the crimson life-blood that welled from some 
 unseen injury. The picture was an apposite termination to 
 her unconventional life, as it appeared when, lying uncon- 
 scious, they found her an hour later, incarnadined as if with 
 her very soul's self the poor little feet now so limp in their 
 pink satin slippers, with the crushed mass of sensuous flow- 
 ers, their waxy whiteness scarce whiter than the lifeless 
 features of what had been an hour before Mahmoure' di 
 Zulueta. 
 
 For five long, weary months she lay between life and 
 death, and then, her lovely figure, her overflowing vitality, 
 her voice, all, save her beauty, which remained, chastened 
 and refined by her interview with the Dark Angel, things of 
 the past, Mahmoure realized that the end of her artist-life 
 was come, and relinquishing the Bohemia of Thespis, she 
 turned to that of the Muses, and drawing upon her rich 
 store of experience, adopted a life of literature, seeking the 
 acquaintanceship and companionship of its masters. 
 
 It was shortly after this that Paul du Peyral was pre- 
 sented to ber in the foyer of the Metropolitan Opera 
 House and the introduction was a complete success. 
 
 When first Paul du Peyral had met Mahmoure di Zulueta 
 they had immediately cemented between themselves a merry
 
 UNE MA1TRESSE FEMME. 45 
 
 bond of good-fellowship. Each respected the talents of the 
 other ; on her side there was a certain curiosity to examine 
 the handsome young Southerner who had led such a laugh- 
 ing, conquering life among the women of two continents. 
 They had taken up their cues the first time he took advan- 
 tage of her permission to call upon her, and had engaged in 
 a brilliant little battle of epigram, in which they had talked 
 much irresponsible philosophy and cheap cynicism, and had 
 scoffed at love right merrily, though, in the minds of both, 
 there arose Balzac's axiom, " qui parle d' amour fait T amour" 
 to talk of love is to make love she, amused by the con- 
 trast between his looks and his speech, the one so young 
 and the other so old ; and he, delighted at finding that the 
 woman he had known by sight and name so long, was gifted 
 with a mental freedom so essentially identical with his own. 
 And so their first interview had passed, leaving nothing but 
 an interest inspired by each in the other's mind, with 
 enough danger mingled with it to make them await with 
 impatience their next. 
 
 It soon came, and was soon repeated. She used to curl 
 herself up on the divan, whilst he walked about, and, half 
 seriously, and half laughingly, talked about himself or 
 exchanged epigrams with her on platonic friendship, which 
 they professed a belief in outwardly and confessed to ridi- 
 culing inwardly. They resembled nothing so much as gym- 
 nasts delighting in their own danger, as they danced on a 
 tight-rope of platitude stretched across the gulf of passion. 
 
 This operation was actively proceeding one evening when 
 a footstep and a knock announced the approach of some 
 guest or other. As she rose to open to the new-comer, 
 almost unconscious of the significance of her words, she said 
 hurriedly, " Sit him out, whoever he is ! " and admitted an 
 old and evidently harmless " family friend." He was one 
 of those good, innocent creatures who attach themselves to 
 beautiful women in this capacity, regretting every moment 
 of their lives their harmlessness and innocence, but clinging
 
 46 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 to these attributes feverishly as their sole excuses for ex- 
 istence. 
 
 His entry hastens the denouement. She has held herself in 
 check when alone with the man who, in her soul, she has 
 begun to long for with all the passion of her wild Oriental 
 nature, and has purposely held herself at something of a 
 tension, from pride rather than from prudery, so anxious is 
 she not to let the wooing appear to be hers. But now she 
 revels in the luxury of " letting go," protected as it were by 
 the presence of Unnecessary Respectability. Her won- 
 drously supple body, following the dictates of her scarce- 
 formed passion, now writhes itself upon the divan into a 
 thousand unconsciously exquisite poses. Slight though it is, 
 Paul du Peyral, deeply versed in the ways of woman, sees 
 the change, notes the deeper colour on the lips, the brighter 
 light in the dark eyes, and he knows that the end is not far 
 off now. She talks to the Unnecessary Friend with a free- 
 dom, an utter disregard for conventionality, and a reckless 
 gayety that make the Unnecessary Friend's mental hair 
 stand on end. He also cannot make out why the youthful 
 stranger does not go away, according to the rules laid down 
 in the " Complete Manual of Etiquette for Gentlemen," but 
 finally, after having made several heroic attempts to dislodge 
 him, all of which are epigrammatically parried, and leave him 
 doubtful whether the youthful stranger is a paragon of 
 politeness or of impertinence, he resigns himself, takes up 
 his unwilling hat, and leaves them. 
 
 Now that they are really alone a fear arises in the minds 
 of both lest by precipitation the analysis may be spoilt to 
 borrow a phrase from the laboratory. He knows thoroughly 
 well how one false note would jar her beyond possibility of 
 re-established harmony, so, adopting the tactics of Fabius 
 Maximus Cunctator on an historic occasion, he waits. She 
 has thrown herself back on the divan and signed to him to 
 sit by her side. 
 
 " May I ? " says he, and sinks among the cushions at a 
 virtuous distance.
 
 UNE MAITRESSE FEMME. 47 
 
 Why can she think of nothing clever to say ? All she 
 does say is, " Is not this a lazy lounge to lie about on ? " 
 
 " Delicious ! " he answers ; " but then everything about 
 you is so restful, so soothing. Do you know, for a nervous 
 man, as I am (though it doesn't appear), it is an exquisite 
 pleasure to be with you, to sit near you, to touch you ? " 
 He has taken up one of her hands, and is softly, nervously, 
 playing with the fingers. " Do you mind my playing with 
 this? it is so pretty." 
 
 " Oh, not at all ! " in the same tone as she would refuse 
 another cup of tea. 
 
 " Have you ever been magnetized ? do you believe in 
 electro-biology ? " he says, gently passing his fingers up to 
 her elbow and drawing them back with a sensuous, lingering 
 pressure. 
 
 " I don't know see if you can do it." 
 
 He is apparently wholly and entirely taken up with his 
 experiment, giving her a chance to raise her guard, as it 
 were. He does not look at her, and so, after awhile, she 
 relaxes ; a languor born of his wonderful magnetic touch 
 envelops her, and she looks at him, as she thinks, unseen. 
 His face is so tranquil, she cannot decide if it is science 
 which at each magnetic pass leads his hand nearer to her 
 shoulder. Her sleeve is loose, he has raised it for pur- 
 poses of his scientific experiment. He draws his sensitive 
 fingers down her arm very slowly as he says, " How lovely 
 these little blue veins are ! see this one, for instance." 
 
 He is evidently very much interested in "this one," for his 
 head gets nearer and nearer till his lips touch the extended 
 arm, and rest there warm and moist. A deadly stillness 
 prevails, as, with an intense difficulty, she suppresses 
 the tremor caused by the pressure of his lips ; but she for- 
 gets that the very suppression has caused a contraction of 
 the muscles that he has felt and interpreted. When he 
 raises his head there is a humidity about his eyes which 
 makes it very difficult for her to preserve her impressive 
 appearance. He makes no movement, but only looks, with
 
 48 THE PK1XCESS DAPHNE 
 
 that sweet, damp look, till she can endure no longer. She 
 raises herself a little from the cushions as if to speak, and 
 then sinks back, a little nearer to the silent, imploring face. 
 
 He will not advance one step apparently. Suddenly, 
 after a little movement, as if of pain, she takes the comb 
 from her hair, and the glorious mass falls all over her, 
 reminding him of the picture of the Magdalen in the Pitti 
 Palace. Its subtle perfume seems to envelop him, and, 
 plunging his hands among the glistening threads, he buries 
 his face in it, almost with a sob. She remains very, very 
 still. At last he whispers : 
 
 " How exquisite ! and how sweet of you to let me ! " 
 And he fills the mass of bronze gold with wild kisses, till 
 she, with a rapid movement, clasps her hands around his 
 neck and draws his lips to hers. 
 
 He seems all entangled in her sweet, sinuous embrace. 
 At last he takes his lips from hers for a moment, and gazes 
 through her half-closed eyes, and then, with a little cry, he 
 gathers her up in his arms and clasps her, panting, and 
 
 almost senseless, to his bosom. 
 
 ******* 
 
 " If you would only love me a little ! I know I don't de- 
 serve it ; all men^say that, I believe ; but in my case it's true, 
 for I was always worthless. Won't you help me to a new 
 life ? " 
 
 As he spoke he crushed the little figure again in his arms ; 
 her answer was scarcely audible, so close had she laid her 
 head against his heart : " Do you know how near to death I 
 am ? " and, as he pressed her closer to him, the wan light 
 died out of her face and she seemed transfigured. A mo- 
 ment before, when he had wound his arms about her, her 
 features had been worn and weary, scarce showing a trace 
 of reason for the worship that had been hers, and was hers 
 still. True hearts had ached to see her look as she 
 looked now, and to hear her confess the wealth of her pas- 
 sionate love in every quiver of her rich, low voice. 
 
 For now her face lit up with the glory of a passion hitherto
 
 UNE MAlTRESSE FEMAIE. 49 
 
 unknown in her wild, brilliant life ; the veil of sadness and 
 sickness faded, and left a face, whose charm we are powerless 
 to judge can only feel. It is not beauty, but something so 
 fascinating, so strange, that even the fresh young face of a 
 beautiful girl might remain unnoticed beside it, though she 
 is on that borderland between youth and age so dreaded by 
 a woman who has had a far greater portion than her share 
 of the world's admiration and man's homage at her feet. 
 
 And he who holds the little figure in so close an embrace 
 look at him as he stands, glorified by his perfect youth and 
 strength. Tall, heavily but lithely built, a strong head set 
 massively on such shoulders as woman loves to look upon, 
 and fears, in spite of herself. A hero to the backbone, though 
 born in some little village of Louisiana, with his long, fair 
 hair and blue-gray eyes, handsome as a man of his size 
 should be, though not formed on the perfect lines which 
 constitute an artist's ideal. His mouth, soft, gentle, and 
 sensual, is too heavily formed for beauty, though it is in 
 keeping with himself, for it seems to promise so much in the 
 way of individuality ; the chin is firm but not too heavy or 
 coarse, with a good-natured dimple in it which is one of the 
 principle charms of the face. He is much older than his 
 age ; many who have lived his years are boys, but he is a 
 man in every sense of the term. How he can have absorbed 
 so much life as he has is a mystery, as yet ; but judged, even 
 as she judges him, by the fierce critical light of the greater 
 world which she knows exoterically and esoterically so well, 
 he comes unharmed through the ordeal. " Si jeunesse 
 savait, si viellcsse pouvait ! " said the Sage. Well, his is a 
 jeunesse qui salt et qui peut ! 
 
 A great fire of joy is in her eyes, for she had honestly 
 believed that no power of man could bring her back to life 
 and love in the world , and all this shines in her face as she 
 answers -him once more : " Do you know how ill I am ? " 
 For she would not take advantage of the impulse of a 
 moment, though fraught with such insane happiness and 
 intoxication as this. 
 4
 
 50 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " I know," he answers, kissing her senses away, " I know ; 
 but you shall live again and your veins shall throb with the 
 pulses of my love. I will give you life in which to forget 
 your foolish fancies." 
 
 "Why have you come to disturb my life ? " she says, after 
 a pause. " I know how much older I am than you. I am 
 not strong enough to love you as I might. Don't play with 
 me." This, almost imploringly. 
 
 " What is age to us who have only just begun to live ? '' 
 he answers. 
 
 And so she resists no more, but lies in his arms, just as 
 he had lifted her up and laid her on the cushions of the 
 divan ; her lips are close to his, and then she knows of noth- 
 ing save of that wild embrace, is conscious of nothing save 
 the soft touch of his finely moulded hands. At last, as if to 
 wake himself from some exquisite dream, he rises to his feet 
 and looks down upon her. 
 
 ******* 
 
 At parting, whilst he holds her in his arms, he says, 
 almost malignantly : 
 
 "Never let us injure one another by word, or deed, or 
 thought ; for two such enemies as we should be, this world is 
 far too small." 
 
 No other words, no protestation of devotion could have 
 given her so full a measure of joy ; for a savage love is the 
 only one possible for her, gentle though all her life has 
 seemed to be. She stands before him, looking up into his 
 face, on hers a wonder, a curiosity, a questioning that seems 
 to say, " Why did you seek me ? what can be the reason ? 
 How have I won you ? " After a long look she murmurs, as 
 her hands cling to his arms that are clasped round her 
 waist : 
 
 " I think you are right there is no middle course for us." 
 
 There is nothing very clever, or original, or significant in 
 the few words, but a look creeps into her face which does 
 not fit the soft features it is the expression of some beauti- 
 ful wild animal, fraught with all the jealous intensity of
 
 UNE MAfTKEJSSE PEA/ME. 5 I 
 
 passion, revealing dimly, though indeed revealing a cruel, 
 wild love that kills rather than relinquishes its object. 
 
 Fascinated, both of them, their lips meet and part silently, 
 and leave them quivering and so he goes out into the 
 night leaving her transfigured. 
 
 She looks into the glass critically, searchingly : she hurries 
 away an instant and then, returning, looks again. The 
 bronze-gold wrapper she had worn has fallen off, leaving her 
 swathed in a gown of soft, clinging white silk, which is bound 
 around her in sinuous folds even illness has been power- 
 less to rob her of the supple grace that she inherits from 
 her Greek ancestors. She looks at the reflection, evidently 
 satisfied ; then a doubt grows up within her and she turns 
 to another glass, thinking the first may have flattered : no, 
 the reflection is still good to look upon ; her lips are crim- 
 son with excitement, and give greater beauty to her dazzling, 
 perfect teeth : she looks fixedly, without conceit, as if ap- 
 praising to its exact value each feature, seeking to justify 
 in her dreadfully wise mind all that the last six hours have 
 brought. With the memory, her knees give away beneath 
 her and she stumbles into the cushions of the divan, and as 
 she almost unconsciously continues to balance the pros and 
 cons, the last remaining spark of reason dies amid the ashes 
 of memory, and, with a big sigh, Mahmoure di Zulueta sinks 
 to sleep. 
 
 With the practiced indiscretion of the romancist and his- 
 torian, I have betrayed the confidence of the early sun- 
 beams, and already the reader has assisted, in the spirit, at 
 the waking of Mahmoure. Little by little she roused her- 
 self, and began the indolent and luxurious operation of 
 clothing her little, fantastic body, whilst she sipped her coffee, 
 and at intervals embarked on the arduous undertaking of 
 crunching an atom of toast ; for, like all Oriental women, it 
 was with the greatest difficulty that Mahmoure could be 
 induced to feed like a Christian which she was not and had 
 no intention of becoming. She preferred to spoil her appetite 
 and ruin her constitution with sweets and strange groceries,
 
 52 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 which later called forth Paul's dictum that " Mahmoure' lived 
 in a state of chronic hors d'tzuvres, physically, mentally, and 
 morally ! " It was nearly one o'clock before she was what 
 she called dressed, and, robed or rather wrapped in cross- 
 ing and recrossing folds of white china silk, with a little 
 Greek jacket of gold embroidery on a burnt-sienna ground, 
 she punched the cushions of the divan into a comfortable 
 nest, and settled herself among them with a scrap of embroi- 
 dery, the last novel sent her from Europe by its illustrious 
 author, and a writing-pad whereon to make a show of writ- 
 ing letters that never got written. 
 
 She was cuddled up thus, diffusing around her a quaint 
 fragrance of sandal-wood, of myrrh, and of Tonquin, when a 
 card was brought her: " Mr. Paul du Peyral." "Ask him 
 in ? Certainly ! " And it was thoroughly characteristic of 
 the woman, that, instead of arranging a fold here, a ribbon 
 there, and giving a precautionary touch to her hair, to receive 
 the natural enemy man, she merely stretched herself out a 
 little more comfortably among the cushions, and held up her 
 hand to be kissed by Paul, who had almost to kneel on the 
 divan by her side for the purpose. 
 
 " I'm so glad you've come," said she ; " it proves at any 
 rate that it's all real. I was beginning to wonder if I hadn't 
 been sent to sleep by the 'family friend,' and that you had 
 both left me to a pleasing, but wearing kind of dream." 
 
 " No," replied he, " it was all exquisitely real and, being 
 so, what do you think of it ? " 
 
 " I don't know what to think. I never felt like it before 
 it's all new to me. Suggest something, please." 
 
 " I wonder whether you would act on my suggestion." 
 
 " Certainly if it's feasible." 
 
 " And supposing it isn't feasible ? " 
 
 " Well I should try ; " this with an air of lazy but inter- 
 ested curiosity. 
 
 " Let us marry one another ! " 
 
 With a sudden movement she started into a sitting pos- 
 ture, and thus, her arms clasped around her knees, she
 
 UNE MAlTRESSE FEMME. 53 
 
 remained, her brown eyes wide open and gazing into his 
 with an expression of lively amazement. 
 
 " You suggest to marry me you who know three things 
 that would ' make the heart of the stoutest quail,' as they 
 say in inexpensive fiction ? First, my age ; second, the 
 whole of my inconsequent life ; and third, that my illness 
 has left me a mere shattered wreck of womanhood." 
 
 " Certainly and those three things I meet with three in- 
 controvertible facts. First, a woman is as old as she looks, 
 and you look about my age ; besides, your real tale of years 
 give you an experience that makes you more maddeningly 
 fascinating to me than any girl between seventeen and five- 
 and-twenty could be. Second, your ' inconsequent ' life is at 
 an end, for I shall be your last love, just as you are my first. 
 Speaking properly, a woman's last love is the only kind of 
 love that can satisfy the first love of a man. Besides, your 
 love for me can only be terminated by the death of one of 
 us, for I shall love you till I die, and if you were unfaithful 
 to me I should kill you without a moment's hesitation. 
 And third, true, your health is shattered, therefore it is 
 necessary that you should not only be taken care of as only 
 a husband can take care of you, but also that, should I die, 
 you should inherit what little property I have, as only a 
 wife can inherit. I might almost say to you, in fact, as M. 
 Le Comte de Noce' said to Mlle.de Pontivi, l Vou!ez vous 
 etre ma. veuve ? ' will you be my widow ? for my life is full 
 of dangers, and I might die any moment." 
 
 " Paul, you overwhelm me ! A man of the world, such as 
 you are, cannot be blind to the fact that marriage with 
 Mahmoure di Zulueta would be ruin to your scheme of 
 existence, which depends, as you yourself have told me, on 
 your social position." 
 
 " Chere amie, your words are like those of a printed book 
 with the leaves in it. What you say as I expected you 
 would say is perfectly true, but why and how, you can 
 scarcely guess. Curl yourself up among your cushions ; I 
 am going to expound my plan with a long story."
 
 54 THE PKLVCRSS DAPHNE. 
 
 *' Go on, mon ami." 
 
 " I, Paul du Peyral, aged twenty-eight, descendant of a 
 Franco-Spanish alliance, rejoicing, as few of us Creoles do, 
 in the possession of a certificate of legitimate original 
 birth and ancestry, live, move, and have my being by a 
 caprice the caprice of a cranky old Southern gentleman 
 whom I had the good fortune to please at a moment 
 when he had had what the Irish call " an elegant row " with 
 
 O 
 
 his entire family. I was left an orphan at sixteen, and, 
 more from pity than from anything else, was adopted as 
 companion, assistant, secretary, steward, or whatever else 
 you like to call it, by an old bachelor who lived a few miles 
 from Baton Rouge, by name Casimir Prdault, and who led 
 a solitary, woman-hating life, engrossed in the studies of the 
 indigenous mosquito, the cosmopolitan house-fly, and the 
 naturalized London sparrow. He was very wealthy, and 
 the premonitory symptoms of his demise were consequently 
 watched with cheerful solicitude by his only living relations, 
 the Pre'aults of New Orleans, of Louisville, and sundry other 
 cities of the South. Now, this old gentleman's nearest liv- 
 ing relative was a cousin, by name Victor Preault, whom he 
 cordially hated, and for whose benefit he used continually 
 to devise irritating and ingenious schemes of disappoint- 
 ment. The interest which I educated myself to take in the 
 morals of the mosquito, the haunts of the house-fly, and the 
 pathology of the common sparrow, in spite of my more 
 absorbing interest in psychology, suggested to him a scheme 
 for the disinheriting of Victor Preault, which, however, was 
 tempered by a more or less genuine affection for his cousin's 
 only daughter, Daphne Preault, whom he adored in spite of 
 that young lady's aversion for him, an aversion which ren- 
 dered futile a cherished scheme of his for the marrying of 
 the said young person to his prot/ge, Paul du Peyral. He 
 consequently made a will, the ingenuity of which has always 
 inspired my profoundest respect. He made a disposition of 
 his entire property to trustees, in trust to pay the entire 
 income to me, on certain conditions and hampered by cer-
 
 UNE MAlTRESSE FEMME. 55 
 
 tain directions. First, I was directed to marry Miss 
 Daphne Pre'ault, whom I had never seen. If she formally 
 refused to marry me, the said income was directed to be 
 paid to me, so that I might be in a position to prosecute his 
 and my hobbies in elegant independence to wit, psychol- 
 ogy, and the studies of the mosquito, the house-fly, and the 
 sparrow. But the will further contained a proviso that, 
 should I ever marry anyone other than the young lady 
 aforesaid, the said income was to 'be paid thenceforward to 
 Miss Pre'ault ; and in the event of my death the same thing 
 was to take place, she being meanwhile invested with a 
 power to dispose of her reversionary interest in the estate, 
 by will, in case of her pre-deceasing me. Now, I am preju- 
 diced against, rather than in favour of, this young woman, 
 and this is one of the reasons I have never married, in spite 
 of the conspiracies of designing mammas, ignorant of the 
 provisions of my benefactor's will. The other reason is, 
 that until I saw you I never loved any woman sufficiently to 
 make her my wife you alone have the mentality, apart from 
 your exquisite personality, which tempts me to throw up 
 everything ; but I have thought of a plan that obviates this 
 latter very painful necessity, though I have, by this time, 
 money enough of my own to render me mildly independent. 
 My plan is this. I am naturally very carefully watched, both 
 by my trustees, and on behalf of Miss Pre'ault, who is, I believe, 
 in Europe somewhere, having gone thither on the death of 
 her father some years ago. We must elude their vigilance, and 
 it may be done in this way : we will go away somewhere and 
 be married very quietly, and then we can return here and go 
 on as we should go on anyhow, only that in the eyes of the 
 world, should they ever guess the completeness of our con- 
 nection (which is unnecessary, if we are careful), you will 
 be my mistress, whilst between ourselves you will be my 
 wife, and will assert your position after my death, in respect 
 of my separate personal estate. I ask this because I love 
 and admire you two very different things, and seldom 
 concomitant from the bottom of my soul, and I verily
 
 $6 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 believe that the knowledge that you are my wife will have 
 an excellent effect on both of us. Only, before the world I 
 shall be still Paul du Peyral the scientist, and what is of far 
 greater interest to the world the bachelor; whilst you will 
 continue to reign in the Bohemia that is so dear to you, as 
 Mahmoure di Zulueta. Say, then, darling, will you take this 
 new lease of life from me ? " 
 
 The womam, at the conclusion of this speech, had buried 
 her head in the cushions. She kept her face thus hidden 
 for a few minutes, during which neither of them spoke, then, 
 raising her eyes to his, she encircled his neck with her arms 
 he had sunk among the cushions beside her and drew 
 his head down to hers, whispering : 
 
 " Paul, Paul, my darling, are you sure you will not regret 
 this ? " 
 
 " Never, sweetheart." 
 
 " But this other woman it is not fair to her." 
 
 " Ah bah ! she is nothing to me, and you are everything. 
 Sooner or later this property must be hers ; at present she 
 is ignorant of all ; let her continue so. I wrote immediately 
 I came into the property and offered myself to her; she 
 refused me insultingly, and her representatives have never 
 ceased trying to harass me ; fortunately, however, though an 
 amateur, the old gentleman was too good a lawyer. ]f you 
 love me, do not let any thought of these horrible people 
 interfere with our happiness. Tell me, is it 'yes' or 
 ' no ' ? " 
 
 The " Yes " was felt rather than heard ; and radiant with 
 hopes, and looking younger than ever in her new-found hap- 
 piness, Mahmoure di Zulueta lay almost unconscious in her 
 lover's arms.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "L'AMOUR EST ENFANT DE BOHEME." 
 
 MANY are the pros and cons of London weather. It has 
 been said of us Londoners, and I fear with truth, that we have 
 the most horrible weather in the world, especially in autumn 
 and winter ; but we can boast with equal truth (hat nowhere 
 else in the world do we find an in-door comfortableness that 
 renders even a foggy day delightful, as we do in London 
 nowhere else can one be so unspeakably cosy as in a Lon- 
 don snuggery whilst the elements practise for another Del- 
 uge, or the world outside grows while and soft with snow. 
 Well, the day after Gabriel Hawleigh's party was " a foggy 
 day " and by this I mean a day as foggy as London knows 
 how to make it when she gives her mind to the subject a 
 day that reminded one of the pictures of London by Leech 
 in the early numbers of Punch, wherein link-boys flit like the 
 familiar demons of the fog. 
 
 It was useless for the Princess Daphne to attempt to work, 
 for the fog lay on the glass of the skylight in her studio 
 roof like a curtain ; so she drew an arm-chair close up to 
 the fire, lit the gas, and took up a book one of those cynical 
 modern romances of immoral psychology which combine the 
 somniferousness of the old-fashioned novel with the innocu- 
 ousness of the nursery-rhyme. The warm red and brown 
 lights flashed by the fire amid the encircling gloom, the gas- 
 jet with its shade, and the girl's brown dress made a charm- 
 ing picture in the stillness of the fog ; but the Princess was 
 not sorry to have it disturbed by a ring at the bell, closely 
 followed by the appearance of Eric Trevanion. He also 
 had been driven by the " murk " from his soul-elevating 
 
 57
 
 5 8 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 easel, and his thoughts had brought him to the door of the 
 Princess Daphne's cottage. 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Trevanion," said she, as she saw who it was : 
 " to what am I indebted for the honour ? " 
 
 " To the weather, Princess, which gave me an excuse I 
 was ardently desiring." 
 
 " I'm sure you require no excuse to call on me ; if you're 
 let in, it means that I am glad to see you or anybody. If 
 I'm busy I ' sport my oak ' ! To-day I am honestly dull, 
 trying to read this miserable production. I've formulated an 
 axiom this morning, which is as follows : ' Modern literature is 
 the apotheosis of truism.' Formerly everything was paradox ; 
 a writer thought he had only to state the glaringly improbable 
 or contradictory, to catch the popular taste : to-day he says 
 sapiently, 'To put on one's hat wrong side foremost is very 
 uncomfortable ; ' and instead of saying, ' Well, what of it ? 
 we know that ! ' his readers hold up their hands and cry, 
 'Dear me, how true! what an observer he is! why, we've 
 often noticed that ourselves ! ' Yes, modern literature is the 
 apotheosis of truism, and the criterion of its excellence is 
 piracy in the United States. If a book is clever enough to 
 say nothing that we don't know already, it is clever enough 
 to be stolen in America. Such is fame ! " 
 
 And the Princess laughed a little, silvery laugh, which 
 stopped short as she saw the smile die away on the face of 
 Eric Trevanion. 
 
 " Why, Sir Knight of the Rueful Visage," said she, " what 
 ill news shortens the smile which I expected as homage to 
 my tirade against the novelist of to-day ? " 
 
 "No ill news, Princess; only I'm puzzled. I can't make 
 you out ; you're so brilliant, and clever, and all thai, you 
 know and you're so absolutely by yourself in the world, I 
 can't account for you ; you're a kind of Sphinx to us all, and 
 yet you talk more freely about yourself than anyone I have 
 ever known. But 'it's never to the point. You know what I 
 mean, though I can't say it," concluded he, helplessly. 
 
 "Well, are you another Davus, or will you be CEdipus?"
 
 "L? AMOUR EST ENFANT DE BOHEME." 59 
 
 " I don't know who Davis is, unless he's the man who 
 bought that academy picture of yours, and I never heard of 
 the other gentleman," replied Eric, mendaciously, so as to 
 hear Miss Preault's definition, which was bound to be inter- 
 esting if not funny. 
 
 "Well, the Sphinx, you know, was a bewildering lady with 
 a taste for cannibalism and conundrums." 
 
 " Yes, I know that." 
 
 " Davus was the journalist of the time, the regret -of whose 
 life was that he was not (Edipus, who was the contemporary 
 Irving Bishop, and read the lady's thoughts." 
 
 " And what good did it do him ? " 
 
 " No good ; he would have married the Sphinx, or what 
 was human of her, and killed what was animal and bad, and 
 no doubt, like many a modern husband, would have been 
 rather sorry for himself. As it is, I believe he married his 
 mamma." 
 
 "But you are not the Sphinx really." 
 
 " Yes, I am. I am half-human and half-animal," returned 
 the girl, gazing abstractedly into the fire. "There is a great 
 deal in me that is terribly human, and there's an underneath 
 side to my character which is terribly savage. I don't know 
 which side troubles me most; and I don't know whether 
 they will ever be separated from one another, and if they 
 are, which will remain incarnate in Daphne Preault, and 
 which will fly off into space ; " she raised her eyes as she 
 finished, and found Trevanion leaning forward in his chair, 
 his wide-stricken eyes fixed upon her with an expression that 
 fancy had often placed there for her before, but intensified, 
 feverish, yearning. 
 
 " Princess ! Daphne you gave me my choice a minute 
 ago whether to be Davus or the other man let me be the 
 other man let me solve the riddle of your life for you. 
 Surely you have seen how I worship you. I never thought 
 I should dare to tell you of it, but I can't help it I love 
 you. " He had taken one of her hands in his and was 
 covering it with kisses; she did not try to take it away, but
 
 60 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 merely looked down with a gaze of infinite pity at him as 
 she replied : 
 
 " Yes, I knew it, but it isn't to be. I would love you in 
 return if I dared ; but I cannot, I dare not, trust myself to 
 love anyone : sooner or later you would discover all my bad- 
 ness and weakness, and then it would be all over. The un- 
 known is always a goal for one's ambition ; I am a goal for 
 yours, which is, I fear, more than half curiosity. So long as 
 you see me from a distance you wonder and do not ques- 
 tion ; touch me, and you would soon criticise ; and when we 
 criticise we soon despise. Eric, my dear friend, I like you 
 far too well ever to show you that weak under side of my 
 nature. Be a companion, a friend to me, if you will, you 
 are the only man who ever had the chance to be, but a 
 lover never ! Come, mon ami, we are merry Bohemians ; 
 don't let's trouble our life with the silly emotions of the 
 outer world." 
 
 He had risen to his feet, and laying one arm upon the 
 mantel-piece, was looking into the fire, leaning his head 
 upon his hand. Her words troubled him ; troubled him 
 with a sensation that was neither pleasure nor pain, but 
 confusion of thought. He brought her the armor of gold, 
 but she refused it, almost inviting his offer of the armor of 
 brass : she had offered him a kind of emotional Platonism, 
 that made his heart beat high with hope, but refused his 
 avowed love on the one plea that flatters a man whilst he 
 will not accept it her own unworthiness. 
 
 " But I want something more, " he said ; " I want your 
 love." 
 
 " No, boy, " she replied ; " come to me for sympathy, for 
 friendship, for assistance, for confession ; but love real 
 love only comes to a man once. It has come to you, but 
 you don't see it ; some clay you will, and then you'll be very 
 grateful to Daphne Preault for not engaging your heart, 
 your soul, but only your brain." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that I know a girl who loves you with her whole
 
 " L 'AMOUR EST ENFANT DE BOHEME." 6 1 
 
 heart. Ah ! no ; I am not going to tell you who it is, if you 
 can't see for yourself : but when you are married you shall 
 come here with your wife, and Daphne Pre'ault will continue 
 in the sunshine of your life the friendship that she inaugu- 
 rated with you in a London fog. Now leave me alone, dear 
 boy, and come here to tea with me to-morrow you will 
 have thought it over by then, and realized that it was for the 
 best that I advised you. " 
 
 So saying she gave him her hand to kiss, and with her 
 little imperial gesture dismissed him. He stood looking at 
 her humbly, helplessly, for a moment, and then he was 
 gone. 
 
 The Princess remained in the house just long enough to 
 wrap herself in a cloak and put on a hat, and then started 
 forth to call at the Hawleigh's. Here also she found work 
 at the easel suspended, but Gabriel and Maye were lost in a 
 cloud of harmony that seemed to make the very fog that had 
 filtered into the studio vibrate with its passion. Daphne 
 Preault did not disturb the musicians, but stood at the entry 
 to the studio till the music should have ceased. When this 
 moment arrived, Gabriel, violin in hand, flung himself onto 
 the lounge, whilst Maye merely bent over the keys and 
 seemed lost in reverie. It was Gabriel, in turning over on 
 the couch, who first saw the magnificent figure standing in 
 the flickering light, and springing to his feet, exclaimed, 
 
 "Princess /" 
 
 At the word, Maye turned also and greeted the visitor, and 
 then they all drew chairs to the fire and began to talk with 
 daring originality about the weather. 
 
 "You have the advantage of me here," began Miss 
 Pre'ault, when this subject had been exhausted. " When 
 you can't work you can play sounds like a truism, doesn't 
 it ? but you know what I mean. Now /simply have to read 
 or receive visits until I get tired of both, and seek congenial 
 society here. Which do you prefer, Gabriel, the fiddle or 
 the easel ? " 
 
 " Well, really I hardly know, " replied he ; " sometimes I
 
 62 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 wish I'd been brought up a professional musician instead of 
 a painter, and at others I wouldn't give up painting if the 
 triumvirate of ghosts of Stradivarius, Tourte, and Paganini 
 came down and implored me to become a violinist by trade." 
 
 " And who are they ? " 
 
 " The Trinity of the Fiddler's worship, the Princes of 
 Fiddle-making, Bow-making, and Fiddle-playing. I invoke 
 their names every time I take up my violin, and beg their 
 shades to inspire me. Ah ! I should never be an artist on 
 the instrument ; I should always remain a virtuoso." . 
 
 " And what is the difference ? " 
 
 " Well, it's the difference between the active and the pas- 
 sive : the artist is master of his violin, the virtuoso is its slave. 
 Joachim, Viardot, Vieuxtemps were and are artists ; Sarasate, 
 Wilhelmj, Paganini, were and are virtuosi. Don't you see 
 the difference ? The artist can read at sight the most difficult 
 music, and plays by note ; the virtuoso plays more, as a 
 rule, by ear, than otherwise. The artist strives after per- 
 fection of technique for the interpretation of the works of 
 the great composers for the instrument ; the virtuoso, on the 
 other hand, aims at brillant execution for the interpretation 
 of his own moods, his own thoughts, his own fantasies. 
 That's what I do ; and there are days when I wish I had 
 given my whole time to it. " 
 
 " Then, I suppose, " remarked Daphne, " that, just as you 
 are a virtuoso with your bow, Eric Trevanion is a virtuoso 
 with the brush. Certainly he doesn't aim at perfection of 
 technique, and certainly he tries to interpret his own moods, 
 thoughts, and fantasies and does so to his own satisfaction 
 doubtless ! " 
 
 " Well, yes ; I think we may call Eric a virtuoso of the 
 camel-hair ; his impressions are hardly what one would call 
 artistic are they ? " 
 
 " And what do you think about it, Maye ? " queried the 
 Princess. 
 
 " Do you know, I never thought of Eric as an artist. I
 
 "I? AMOUR EST ENFANT DE BOHEMEr 63 
 
 look upon his profession as a colossal joke, and an excuse 
 for keeping untidy, artistic rooms. " 
 
 " What do you think of him as a man ? " 
 
 " Good gracious, Daphne, what an indiscreet question ! 
 Why, I think him a very worthy person, very bright and 
 kind and all that ; but I never made a study of him. Why 
 ask me?" The girl did her utmost to make her light reply 
 as meaningless and casual in tone as possible ; but the flush 
 that came over her face as she answered told the Princess the 
 story she wanted to know. 
 
 " I wonder he has never married, " she went on, vivisec- 
 tionally. 
 
 " On the contrary, " broke in Gabriel, " the wonder to me 
 would be if any girl would ever be bold enough to take him, 
 and be painted continually as a ' Note in Black and White,' 
 'A Crochet in White Worsted,' 'A Quaver in B Minor,' 
 or something eccentric of that sort." 
 
 " I think," returned Miss Pre'ault, abstractedly, " that he'd 
 make some girl a perfect husband. He'd be so tender, and 
 gallant, and chivalrous, and delicate." 
 
 Maye looked at her gratefully, and would have spoken, 
 only Gabriel cut in, remarking : 
 
 " Well, I'm glad you think that, because he's madly in love 
 with you. " 
 
 " Of course he is so are you," replied the girl, without 
 turning a hair. 
 
 " Of course I am, but I'm not so badly bitten as Eric ; I'm 
 only at the stage of telling you so whenever I have a chance; 
 he's got to the point of thinking it continually." 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense, Gabriel," replied the Princess, 
 sharply. 
 
 " I am not talking nonsense : and look here ; I wish you'd 
 marry him and take him back to Cornwall or Dartmoor or 
 wherever it is ; he's ruining me here am / painting night- 
 mare pictures now." 
 
 " Oh ! where ? Show me,"
 
 64 THE PRIA'CESS DAPiINE. 
 
 " Under the seal of profoundest secrecy, I'll show you the 
 great work for the next Academy." 
 
 So saying, Gabriel uncovered the canvas on which he had 
 been at work. It represented a London street, in a dense 
 fog. In the foreground, lighted by a yellow blotch of street 
 lamp, a blind itinerant fiddler was playing, apparently 
 unconscious of the state of the atmosphere. A man and a 
 girl were passing, wrapped up snugly, and laughing at one 
 another. Under cover of the fog they had twined their 
 fingers together as the girl held the man's arm tightly in 
 hers ; whilst the blind fiddler played on, in apparent igno- 
 rance of all. The painting was unfinished, hardly, indeed, 
 more than roughed in, but the composition of the oblique 
 vista of street was perfect, the balance of the figures was 
 masterly, and the whole thing was toned in a manner which 
 showed high artistic skill. 
 
 " But, my dear friend," said Daphne Preault, gravely, " this 
 is really a great work if you finish it as you've begun. What 
 shall you call it ? " 
 
 " ' Sunshine in the Fog, ' I think, or perhaps, ' It's an ill 
 wind blows nobody any good.' You see, I want to convey 
 the idea that the blind fiddler is unconscious of the fog as 
 well as of the happiness of the young couple flirting under 
 his blind old eyes and under cover of the darkness. Jt 
 shows that it might be an advantage to be sightless some- 
 times you see, to him it's apparently an ordinary day, for 
 the sunshine is in his soul as he hears the two go laughing 
 by." 
 
 " Gabriel," said Daphne, " this will be a great picture 
 mark my words." 
 
 "Well, I hope so," said the boy; " it's time my undoubted 
 talents were recognized by the Hanging Committee and the 
 art-dealers. If this goes well, it will make a rent in the 
 cloud, through which I may be enabled to shove some of my 
 lesser masterpieces known to the vulgar as pot-boilers." 
 
 "Well a thousand congratulations ! But I must go back 
 to work, for the sky's clearing a little."
 
 " U AMOUR EST ENFANT DE BOHEME." 65 
 
 And with this she left them. In the drawing-room she 
 found Mrs. Hawleigh. 
 
 " What do you think of the boy's picture, Daphne? " said 
 she. 
 
 " I think it is going to be very great. What accounts for 
 his sudden stride ? " 
 
 " Can't you guess, dear ? " 
 
 " Ah ! And does she care for him ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so. Gratitude would make her do so, but I 
 don't think it is necessary. He has worked hard enough for 
 her, poor boy ! I hope nothing will happen to disappoint 
 him ; it would be his death-blow, I think." 
 
 " Mrs. Hawleigh, forgive me, but has it never occurred to 
 you that she might care for anyone else ? Eric Trevanion, 
 for instance ? " 
 
 " My dear, I have feared so sometimes, but when I see 
 Eric with you, I feel easier about it. You know he adores 
 you, I suppose. " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He has told you so no doubt ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And do you care for him? pardon me for asking, bu 
 I'm so anxious on Gabriel's account; do you care for Ei ; > 
 Trevanion ? " 
 
 " Yes " this almost in a whisper. 
 
 " And have you told him so ? " 
 
 " No, I have not told him so." 
 
 " Oh ! why not, dear ? Think a moment if you love Eric 
 and would tell him so when he asks you, how happy we a 1 
 should be you he I and those children in there." 
 
 "That boy, you mean, Mrs. Hawleigh ? " 
 
 " And the girl too, dear ; she knows Eric doesn't care 
 about her, and if she knew that you returned his affection, 
 she would give her whole heart undivided to Gabriel, and 
 uninfluenced by that terrible thing, gratitude." 
 
 " I hardly know myself enough, Mrs. Hawleigh. Some- 
 times I am afraid when I think of marriage. There are two
 
 66 THE PRINCESS DAPHA'E. . 
 
 sides to my nature, one human and the other savage" she 
 was unconsciously drifting back to what she had told Tre- 
 vanion " and I know that marriage would kill the one and 
 develop the other, and unless the man were a great, strong 
 creature, I am terribly afraid that the human, womanly side 
 of me would disappear. It's the way with all of us South- 
 ern American women ; we can rule others, but require to be 
 ruled ourselves ; and I doubt if Eric Trevanion has it in his 
 power to rule me, to keep me in his power when he gets to 
 know all about the real Daphne Preault, with whom the 
 Daphne Preault you know is hardly on speaking terms her- 
 self!" 
 
 " Oh ! you do yourself injustice. All girls do when they 
 are in love. Go and think it over, dear ; I am sure you will 
 see that what I say is for the best." 
 
 " Very well I'll think it over." 
 
 "That's right and remember that by making yourself 
 and Eric happy, you are giving a new life to Gabriel and 
 Maye, a new encouragement to him in his work, a new bul- 
 wark of defence to Maye, against the whims of her silly little 
 heart." 
 
 The two women kissed one another, and the Princess 
 Daphne walked back to her cottage. 
 
 It was situated at the other end of Holland Street, and 
 was one of the little houses with a patch of garden in front 
 of it to which I have alluded, in describing the street. 
 When her father, Victor Preault of Baton Rouge, died, leav- 
 ing her an income which, computed in American dollars, 
 was statable in four figures, of which the first was only one 
 remove from an unit, Daphne, alone in the world, strongly 
 inclined to art, and averse to governess-ship, had struck her 
 camp, and migrated direct to Holland Street, where her in- 
 come warranted her in furnishing the little semi-detachment 
 in which the scene I have described between her and Eric 
 had taken place. 
 
 Her originality of invention and daring touch had quickly 
 assured her artistic success, and her personality had gradu-
 
 "U AMOUR EST ENFANT DE BOHEME." 6j 
 
 ally made for her a throne from which she ruled the colony 
 with a beneficent and almost motherly sway. A better 
 friend " the boys " had never had, and rumour chaunted a 
 variegated though monotonous Iliad paradoxical though it 
 may seem, written down of the way in which everyone had 
 been obliged to go through the tortures of unrequited affec- 
 tion and refusal, before settling down into the ranks of the 
 Princess's adoring subjects. The little house was charm- 
 ingly furnished, and the studio into which the goddess of 
 the place now stepped was characteristic of its denizen as 
 only a studio can become. It was very large, and its gen- 
 eral appearance reminded one more of a Roman atelier than 
 anything else : its solid furniture consisted of a lounge 
 covered with an enormous bear-skin, a rosewood writing- 
 table, a miniature grand piano by Chickering, and a renais- 
 sance cabinet filled with a collection of the silver, ivory, 
 and porcelain toys of the eighteenth and preceding cent- 
 uries. Daphne Preault painted, as regards touch and sub- 
 ject, with the weird independence of the modern French 
 school ; and it seemed as if into her work, which had 
 the minutia and detail of Meissonier, combined with the 
 sensuous fantasy of Vedder and Blake, she flung without 
 reserve the infinite shades of her complicated personality. 
 One of her finest works which she refused to sell hung 
 over the high oaken mantel-shelf ; it represented Gabriel 
 Hawleigh in his silk working shirt of morning, and "autres 
 chases" oi afternoon, his collar lying open, his feet thrust 
 into morocco slippers, reclining on the bear-skin of the 
 lounge, with his fiddle under his arm. Evidently he had got 
 up in the middle of his work, seized by some musical whim 
 or other, and, at the conclusion of his performance, had flung 
 himself exhausted onto the fur ; the Princess had insisted on 
 painting him thus, and called it after Tourguenieff's marve- 
 lous story, " Le Chant d' Amour Triomphant." It was an ad- 
 mirable specimen of her skill, and a great favorite among 
 " the boys. " 
 
 To-day, however, she did not paint, but lay till evening
 
 68 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 almost motionless on the bear-skin, " not at home " to any- 
 one, and revolving in her mind the events and conversations 
 of the morning. A black woman a negro servant who had 
 accompanied her across the ocean four years before, brought 
 her tea at five o'clock, and at half-past seven she went forth to 
 dine in Queen's Gale, returning to bed and to sleep soundly 
 till the sunrise woke her next morning. 
 
 What the result of the previous day's cogitations had been 
 not even the practised indiscretion of the novelist is entitled 
 to impart to his readers. It is enough for them to know that, 
 to-day being bright, she worked hard at her Academy picture 
 until Clytie, the darkie woman, bringing in the tea-tray at five 
 o'clock, announced : 
 
 " Mr. Trevanion." 
 
 Daphne Preault rose, and extending her hand, said : 
 
 " Bon chevalier ! sit down and drink tea and eat things, 
 and then I'll tell you a programme I've made out for our 
 amusement this evening, if you're disengaged." 
 
 " I'm always disengaged for you, Princess." 
 
 " Very good ! that's as it should be. You must go away 
 at six, and come back at half-past seven ; I've got two stalls 
 for the Parthenon, and want you to take me to see the new 
 play. Vi place cosi ? Does my plan suit you ? " 
 
 " Certainly," replied Trevanion ; and they chatted easily 
 and merrily on different subjects, avoiding the one which 
 was uppermost in their minds, until the stated hour, when the 
 young man, with a joyful " An rwoir" left the girl to her 
 important meditations, her more important dinner, and her 
 most important toilette. 
 
 At half-past seven he was at the door with a hansom ; and 
 Eric Trevanion and Daphne Preault were bowled along in 
 what Lord Beaconsfield, plagiarizing from Balzac, called 
 " the gondola of the London streets," past Kensington and 
 Knightsbridge, and down Piccadilly to the doors of the 
 Theatre Royal Parthenon. 
 
 People may say what they like to the pyschological con- 
 trary, but there is certainly something deliciously " intime "
 
 " D AMOUR EST ENFANT DE BOHEME:* 69 
 
 in the fact of driving alone with a woman, whether it be in 
 the family coach, the discreet coup/, or the ordinary hansom. 
 We are told that when the American young man "goes 
 courting," he lavishes his substance on innumerable buggy 
 rides with his young woman. I have passed much of my 
 life in what Mr. Carnegie has called the "Triumphant 
 Democracy," and have not observed this to be the case ; 
 but there is no denying the fact, that when, in the depth of 
 the transatlantic winter, the snow is packed in a polished 
 layer upon the face of the world, the transatlantic young 
 man and the transatlantic young woman do eagerly 
 patronize the sleigh known as a "cutter," wherein the 
 pair sit very close together indeed, and the young man 
 drives; or better still, the roomier form of sleigh in which, 
 if I may be allowed the expression, they "snuggle" 
 beneath the buffalo-robes, and the young man prevents the 
 young woman from falling out when they turn sharp corners. 
 The spring is consequently the season of love and marriage 
 in America as is, I believe, the case elsewhere, according to 
 the poet ; and the Englishman who said he preferred as 
 being less dangerous sitting in a draught in a rocking-chair, 
 with his feet in a tub of ice-water, jangling a bell, to the 
 national winter pastime, must have experienced the joys of 
 sleighing with a well-meaning, but male, companion. In 
 Canada they toboggan, and this is a still more ingenious in- 
 vention ( or rather collaboration ) of Eros and Hymen ; and 
 these things have their efficient counterparts in England, no 
 matter what may be the vehicle that enforces an intimate 
 physical propinquity. 
 
 Love is to a great extent a meteorological phenomenon, 
 that is to say, it is largely a matter of atmosphere. Who has 
 not experienced, on entering a woman's boudoir, the sensa- 
 tion that the whole atmosphere is deliriously saturated with 
 her physical as well as mental personality ? To a much greater 
 extent is this noticeable in a brougham or coupe, where the 
 area is even more circumscribed. How keen an observer 
 have we considered to be the French author who describes
 
 7O THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 the sensations of an amorous swain on finding himself reclin- 
 ing in a box upon wheels, practically enveloped in the dra- 
 peries of his inamorata ! Such seances are often, like spirit- 
 ualistic functions, carried on in darkness and silence ; but 
 the mingling of atmospheres produces a mental excitement 
 that has hurried many a domestic drama to its denouement. 
 And the Londoner who understands his hansom will agree 
 with me. She the She with a capital S not unfrequently 
 becomes as fascinating as the " She " described by Mr. Rider 
 Haggard (even if she was not so before), when, with a flash 
 of ankle and whiteness, she has stepped into the expectant 
 hansom, and we have followed her, and then, by closing 
 the doors, have covered our knees with the outlying regions 
 of her opera-cloak and other " things." The celibate 
 philosopher will agree with me that to order the " cabby " 
 to " put down the glass " is fatal ; the hansom then 
 becomes worse than a coupe" ; the half-doors are bad 
 enough ! It is not necessary to talk ; we have most of us 
 observed that She leans more heavily upon our extended 
 hand in getting out than she did on getting in. 
 
 Eric and Daphne were in love with one another. They said 
 but little during the transit, but lounged, rather than sat, 
 crushed against one another by the narrowness of the cab, 
 and gave themselves over to the unrestrained enjoyment of 
 their thoughts, trusting to the rattle of the vehicle to drown 
 the almost audible beating of one heart, if not of two. Ar- 
 rived at the doors of the Parthenon their eyes flashed 
 strangely bright in the darkness, and both felt almost re- 
 lieved that the ride was over, and that the play was there to 
 obviate the necessity of conversation. 
 
 But between riding with a woman within the confines of 
 a cab and sitting next to her in the stalls of a theatre there 
 is little to choose ; indeed, for harmlessness, I think the 
 palm might be given to the former. We enter and take our 
 seats, and then, passing an arm behind her, we help her to 
 remove her wraps and reveal for ourselves the ivory skin, 
 the rounded arms, and the delicious dress which has been
 
 " i: AMOUR EST ENFANT DE BOHEME." 7 I 
 
 hitherto hidden from us by the aforesaid wraps ; and, in so 
 doing, we envelop ourselves, as it were, in a cloud of the 
 delicate fragrance of the perfumes with which women in all 
 parts of the civilized world love to heighten the fascination 
 to themselves. We settle ourselves luxuriously in our seats, 
 and the play commences ; after a moment the spirit moves 
 us to rest our elbow on the arm of the stall ; we find it 
 already occupied, and draw our sleeve away again with a 
 thrill ! Next time we are more successful ; the arm is unen- 
 cumbered ; she has leaned foward interested in the play : in a 
 minute or two, the strain of attention relieved, she, in turn, 
 rests her elbow on well, on the arm of the stall, after we 
 have apologized sotto voce and once more vacated the posi- 
 tion. Then something in the play calls for a whispered 
 comment, and a lovely head is bent close to our own to 
 listen, and to require the remark to be repeated; then our 
 heads separate, and for a few seconds we haven't an idea 
 of what the play is all about. Next, the opera-glasses fall 
 down, and we dive amidst a maelstrom so it seems to us 
 of laces and stuffs to recover the same, whilst the prettiest 
 hand in the world holds the maelstrom aside to facilitate the 
 search, and the glasses are gently laid back in the place 
 whence they originally fell. Next minute, the act-drop 
 falls, the lights are turned up, and we chatter volubly about 
 the play, uttering commonplace platitudes against which 
 our intelligence would revolt in broad daylight, ask stupid 
 questions which require and expect no answers, and answer 
 at random questions that have not been asked. 
 
 The curtain rises on the next act the act in which the 
 love interest of the play develops. It is getting interesting; 
 and now quite unconsciously both our elbows rest upon 
 the intermediary arm, which has by this time assumed the 
 role of the wall which separated Pyramus and Thisbe not 
 touching one another ; that only happens unconsciously 
 also about half-way through the act ; and we are almost 
 surprised to find that it is the case, when the act-drop falls 
 once more, and turning to one another simultaneously, each
 
 72 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 reads in the other's eyes what each we, that is would 
 have done under circumstances similar to those in the play. 
 Between the second and third acts we chat reasonably, 
 almost confidentially, on subjects quite personal, quite 
 unconnected with the play we are witnessing, leaning back 
 in our stalls, our shoulders almost, if not quite, touching one 
 another. We are interrupted almost surprised when the 
 lights in the house go down, and the stage lights up once 
 more. There is little or no pretence during the last act ; 
 we sit as close together as circumstances i.e. the people 
 behind will allow. As the story before us draws to its cli- 
 max, and everything ends happily, we fancy we can hear 
 one another breathe ; and when the concluding sentence, 
 often the best-written in the whole play, is drowned by the 
 rustle of people struggling into their outer garments, and 
 groping for hats which have somehow gone off on voyages of 
 discovery by themselves, we carefully and with procrastina- 
 tion which is the soul of business, in spite of the proverb 
 wrap her up, in dire terror lest the night air should attack 
 that beautiful throat, and we are rewarded by ever so slight 
 a pressure of the hand that rests on our arm as we reach 
 the outer world and embark once more in the insidious 
 hansom, which we direct, with an air of luxurious proprietor- 
 ship, to drive to her house. 
 
 On the application of the above analysis to the circum- 
 stances of my story I offer no comment. Eric Trevanion 
 and Daphne Preault witnessed the performance at the Par- 
 thenon and drove home to Holland Street. 
 
 "Waters, both strong and mild, with biscuits and a fire 
 will be in the studio," said the Princess Daphne ; " won't you 
 come in for an instant before you stroll down the street ? " 
 
 " Thanks ! with pleasure ; " and they went in. 
 
 Clytemnestra, or for short, " Clyde," the ebony tirewoman 
 of the Princess Daphne, had removed her opera-cloak, her 
 fan, her gloves, and other impedimenta, and had left the 
 pair alone. Whilst Eric busied himself with the innocuous 
 comestibles that stood on a little table by the fire, Daphne
 
 " L* AMOUR EST ENFAA'T DE BOHEME." 73 
 
 threw herself onto the lounge and sat, lazily watching him, 
 and prosecuting a search after conversation. Between them 
 there had sprung up a sudden restraint which was quite 
 unusual ; the pauses in the conversation were longer than 
 necessary, the stray remarks were mostly irrelevant, the 
 observations were spasmodic and impersonal. They who 
 had been accustomed to compare their feelings with perfect 
 frankness seemed conscious that a tacit understanding had 
 been raised between them, had grown up without their 
 knowledge, and forbade a word that might invoke they 
 knew not what ! Who can say which hand-pressure, which 
 tremor of the eyelid, which quiver of the lips had shown 
 them that a chapter of their lives was ended ? Who can 
 say which lightning-flash of passion had riven the cloud of 
 their happy camaraderie, showing the heaven of love beyond ? 
 Whatever might be their future, the unconscious careless- 
 ness of their past companionship was left behind forever. 
 
 And now she leaned forward and gazed into the fire, and 
 he could look at the exquisite lines of her neck and back. 
 Her hair grew exactly to the " beauty line," and being 
 drawn up rather high on the head left a few lovely little soft 
 curls at the back of the neck, their dusky warmth making 
 her white skin still more dazzling and cool. After a 
 moment of eloquent silence she said : 
 
 " Eric, come here." 
 
 He approached her, and impulsively he sank on his knees 
 on the hearth-rug, at her side and a little behind her, and, 
 feeling as though it were too good to be true some deceitful 
 vision that he feared to dispel he remained in rapt wonder 
 looking at her, scarcely breathing. 
 
 Was it a simple accident, or the unconscious magnetism of 
 love that drew Daphne's head back toward him, back until 
 his lips almost touched the little curls ? and then, he 
 breathed rather than imprinted a kiss, as if by accident, 
 upon the beautiful neck. As he did so, with a strong shud- 
 der she leant back in the lounge, and with little more than
 
 74 THE PKIXCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 curiosity in her face, though a delirious weight lay on her 
 heart, she said in a steady, clear voice : 
 
 " My poor boy, you will only be more miserable if I kiss 
 you and some day you will blame me " 
 
 Before she can say any more, he has construed her words 
 for himself, and such a torrent of kisses rains upon her hair, 
 her eyes, her lips, that she is unable to frame a thought or 
 utter a word, but gives herself up to the moment. The sub- 
 tle charm of the tender violence little by little overpowers 
 her, a stifled sob breaks from her, and she turns deathly 
 pale. If he had understood women better he would not 
 have taken his arms from about her, as he does for an in- 
 stant, and ask her if she feels faint ! The sound of his voice 
 destroys the spell ; she puts him from her almost roughly, 
 with a nervous force that surprises him, and says : 
 
 " Go go or I shall never forgive you ; " and as he tries 
 to speak, she interrupts him, saying, " Eric ! I know I am in 
 your power but I am only a woman go, for God's sake ! 
 go, and don't take advantage of that power." 
 
 It is a terrible temptation to him as he holds the gorgeous 
 figure in his arms, and he hesitates : then his manhood con- 
 quers ; he rises with a little stagger, and without daring to 
 look at her, he hurries from the studio. The front-door 
 slams, and he is gone. And is she grateful to him for his 
 obedience ? Ah ! who knows ? 
 
 With the sharp click of the outer gate-latch, distinctly 
 audible in the stillness of the night, Daphne awoke, as from 
 the influence of a dream. She rose, straightening and 
 smoothing the folds of her dress as if to brush away the 
 touch of the man, and, walking to the fire, stretched out her 
 icy-cold fingers to the blaze. As the warmth began to cir- 
 culate in her veins the softness faded from the great brown 
 eyes, and in its place came a calm, questioning, introspective 
 look, which would have done more to pull Eric Trevanion 
 together, could he have seen it, than the radical brandy-and- 
 soda that he gave himself on reaching his rooms. 
 
 Then, turning from the fire, she lit a cigarette and began
 
 "L 'AMOUR EST ENFANT DE BOHEME." 75 
 
 pacing up and down the studio. It was characteristic of her 
 to vivisect herself with far less mercy than she would have 
 shown to another woman ; her code had ever been, " mercy 
 and extenuating circumstances for her feeble fellow-crea- 
 tures ; but for herself ! the hard, uncompromising Truth." 
 So she figuratively placed her inmost being in a sort of glass 
 case, put it upon the piano, turned up the lights, and pro- 
 ceeded to examine its intricacies critically. No flaw escaped 
 her no weakness was condoned no excuse of sex was par- 
 doned. What were her feelings as regarded Eric Trevanion ? 
 this was the burden of her investigation ; did she wish he 
 had remained ? 
 
 Yes, she would answer herself truthfully, she wished he 
 had not been so obedient or so English. Why had he not 
 forced her to say she cared for him as she had never 
 cared for man before ? Should she marry him ? Was what 
 she now felt the love she had so often read about, and had 
 never believed in or sympathized with ? Hardly. She had 
 no more desire to marry him now than she had had before 
 the events of the night which was now shivering with the 
 chill of approaching dawn. No, she wanted to be free but 
 she wanted Eric as the companion of that freedom ; but 
 even with all her independence of spirit, could she stretch 
 the mantle of Bohemia so wide as to cover that ? Hardly. 
 But the weird confusion in the glass case said plainly, " I 
 want liberty, and what is liberty without him ? a mere sim- 
 ulacrum of "independence." This strange Creole girl, against 
 whom no word of reproach had ever been breathed, was 
 sensible that before morning her vital choice would be made. 
 She could do as she pleased on payment of the cost Lib- 
 erty and Eric. But the cost was enormous ; in this one 
 venture she was called upon to sink the entire capital of 
 her womanhood. She brought the whole of her faculty of 
 mental concentration so rare in woman to the solution of 
 this point. 
 
 The recklessness and fatal danger of the choice attracted 
 rather than repelled her. Her savage nature, once aroused,
 
 76 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 found an added charm in the thought of thus gambling away 
 her most precious possession ; in her perfect chastity she 
 could look upon the commission of a sin in the eyes of the 
 world without a shock. Why do I continue ? In seeking to 
 show the complicated nature of Daphne's personality I can- 
 not escape being either minute to weariness or vague to 
 incomprehensibility. It was this very confusion of charac- 
 teristics that was one of her greatest fascinations. 
 
 For hours the brain battled with the heart the spirit with 
 the flesh ; and as the bell of the neighboring Carmelite Mon- 
 astery roused the monks to Lauds and Prime, Daphne Pre'- 
 ault seated herself at the writing-table and wrote to Eric : 
 
 "I have fought, and I have conquered. I am yours 
 come to me."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MESMERISM. 
 
 IN the society of every city in the world, I suppose there 
 must be, by some inscrutable law of nature, some nasty peo- 
 ple probably to make us appreciate the nice ones. What- 
 ever may be the reason, however, there is no doubt that 
 New York, at the time that I chronicle, was no exception to 
 the rule ; and even in the fascinating cosmopolitan society of 
 the modern Gotham there were a few nasty people, of whom 
 undoubtedly the nastiest were by common consent the Van 
 Baulk'ems. Mrs. Odious Van Baulk'em regarded herself as 
 handsome, and as select in her strife after social position. 
 I have often observed that people who refuse to recognize 
 those of their own class in life, and seek to entertain their 
 social superiors, usually find themselves reduced to enter- 
 taining the sediment of a class superior to their own the 
 impecunious and shady ones, who will go anywhere for a 
 dinner and daughters with money and so entertaining, 
 fondly imagine their society to be " select." Well ! select it 
 is ; but it is a selection of the riff-raff of a class into the solid 
 substance of which they would give their eyes to be admit- 
 ted. The Van Baulk'ems were of this complexion, and this 
 was the kind of society that one would meet at their house 
 on Fifth Avenue should one be so imprudent as to pass 
 through its portals on the strength of one of the innumera- 
 ble cards that Mrs. Van Baulk'em was in the habit of flip- 
 ping all over New York, via the " Society List," and especi- 
 ally among the young men who might possibly feel justi- 
 fied by their constitutions in " going in for " the angular 
 and highly-coloured charms of Miss Van Baulk'em, or the 
 clever, pretty vulgarity of Miss Parthenia Van Baulk'em, a 
 
 77
 
 78 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 young lady suspected of society journalism, who had been 
 hawked round Europe and America for years, in search of 
 an adventurous swain. But such had not turned up ; and 
 though it seemed likely that the millions of the elder might 
 attract a penniless European of doubtful antecedents, the 
 younger, Miss Parthenia Van Baulk'em, showed no inclina- 
 tion to " go off." 
 
 From this very slight sketch of a very unpleasant family, 
 the reader will have gathered that the Van Baulk'ems' house 
 was hardly one where Paul du Peyral would elect to spend 
 much of his leisure time ; but as, on his first arrival in the 
 city, he had dined at the house on Fifth Avenue, and had 
 allowed himself to be mildly lionized as a social savant by 
 the family; and as, moreover, there was something essen- 
 tially piquante and refreshing about the ready repartee of 
 Miss Parthenia, he would periodically drop in on Mrs. 
 Van Baulk'em's reception day, and converse with that young 
 person for a space. One of these occasions took place 
 about two months after his marriage with Mahmoure di 
 Zulueta, and, in obedience to the laws of cause and effect, 
 that visit materially influenced the course of the history I 
 am recording in these pages. The opera season had 
 recently commenced, and Paul had unconsciously made him- 
 self very interesting and instructive on the subject of the 
 German school of opera, with Wagner as the text of his 
 homily. 
 
 " Why don't we see you more at the opera, Mr. du Pey- 
 ral ? " had queried the fair Parthenia. 
 
 " Because I have but little time for such pleasures. My 
 work is of a kind that appreciates, nay requires, the peace- 
 fulness of the night hours; and again, the conversation for 
 which one goes to the opera in New York is so cruelly in- 
 terrupted by the music that one has no chance of appreciat- 
 ing it and profiting by it." 
 
 " But don't you think it is possible to divide one's atten- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " No, I don't, Miss Van Baulk'em. To appreciate a mel-
 
 MESMERISM. 79 
 
 ody in an opera, one must have followed very carefully the 
 harmonies which have led to it. An isolated melody is like 
 a proverb in a foreign language, which one knows by heart, 
 and of which one admires the meaning and sound, without 
 knowing its literal translation." 
 
 " Well, I quite agree with you, only I wanted to get at 
 your sentiments on the subject." 
 
 Miss Parthenia was accounted a brilliant conversation- 
 alist, and deservedly so, for she had fully realized that, in 
 woman, conversational brilliancy consists of little else than 
 an appreciation of the conversing man ; and Paul left the 
 Van Baulk'ems' house that day he was but human, after all 
 with a pleased conviction that the girl was not so bad as 
 she was painted perhaps, and as he stepped onto the avenue, 
 recorded in his note-book an engagement he had made to 
 visit the Van Baulk'ems' box at the opera on the following 
 evening. 
 
 Two months before this, he and Mahmoure' had fled New 
 York and hidden themselves in a little Canadian village on 
 the banks of the Niagara River, and beside that grand, 
 placid stream, that gives so little indication, save by a dull 
 murmur on a very quiet day, of the agony of turbulence with 
 which it has rushed over the falls a few miles further up, had 
 become man and wife, in the presence alone of a couple of 
 parishioners, the parson, and God. There had followed a 
 few weeks of pure, lovely delight, in contemplation of the 
 turquoise water, with Ontario in the distance, reminding one 
 by its colour and placidity of the Trasimene Lake ; and then 
 they had returned to New York to a life outwardly un- 
 changed, but new in every thought, both to Mahmoure in 
 her nest in West Forty-first Street, and to Paul in his bach- 
 elor apartments not so very far off. The world remarked 
 that they seemed to be " very good friends," and looked at 
 them with uninterested curiosity when they appeared in 
 public together, according to the custom of the Bohemia in 
 which they lived ; but not on that account did disinterested 
 mammas cease to play upon Paul the shrapnel of invitations
 
 8O THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 to every kind of entertainment where marriageable daugh- 
 ters do congregate. 
 
 The light of life seemed to be returning to Mahmoure's 
 pale cheeks, the fire of life began to shine, as of yore, 
 from her eyes ; but Paul was unchanged, save in the 
 eyes of one or two of his most intimate friends, who told 
 one another that he seemed to lack in a measure his old 
 enthusiasm, to enter less eagerly into the somewhat exhaust- 
 ing schemes of amusement they put before him ; that his 
 mouth was less determined, that his eye was less bright 
 than of old, when they disturbed him at his books and at his 
 weird calculations, at hours when domesticated New York 
 has sought its virtuous couch. 
 
 Nevertheless, ten o'clock on the evening of the day follow- 
 ing that of his visit above recorded found him entering the 
 Van Baulk'ems' box, to be greeted warmly by Mrs. Van 
 Baulk'em, who was chatting with a man on the sofa in the 
 ante-loge, and to be " sent forward " in order to be seen 
 talking with the dear girls in front. It was during an 
 entre-acte, so that Miss Parthenia had no compunction in pro- 
 ceeding to draw him out, an operation in which that young 
 lady excelled, and in deference to which Paul subsequently 
 wrote an article dedicated to her and entitled " The Conver- 
 sational Corkscrew a study of Platitudinous Periphrasis ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Lexington Park has told me," began the siren, 
 "that you are most interesting, M. du Peyral, if one can get 
 you to talk about transmigration of souls metem-what's- 
 his-name you know." 
 
 " Metempsychosis ? " 
 
 " Yes, that's it and I have been thinking how it would 
 be if one could suddenly change places and souls with one 
 of those people up in the gallery. How strange it would be 
 to find one's self suddenly full of new ideas, perhaps wondering 
 if one can afford to come again on Friday, and whether the 
 people down here enjoy themselves more than they do up 
 there." 
 
 " I think, mademoiselle, that if you could make the change
 
 MESMERISM. 8 1 
 
 you desire, you would probably find that you were in an 
 atmosphere of genuine appreciation of the music, whilst in 
 your place here would appear, by the exchange, a stupid, 
 unsociable creature who actually wanted to listen, and might 
 even go so far as to say ' Hush ! ' when your neighbors talk 
 small talk ' and ' scandal ' to the music of the ' Gotterdam- 
 merung.' Think ! how terrible ! " 
 
 " Do you know, I think I should rather like it." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then look at me for a moment." 
 
 She did so, and almost immediately closed her eyes, and 
 Paul smiled a little self-satisfied smile. Unfortunately Miss 
 Van Baulk'em, observing that her sister had sunk from scan- 
 dal to silence, and fearful lest she might rise from silence to 
 snores, tapped her with her fan and exclaimed, 
 
 " Thenie ! you're going to sleep ! " 
 
 She opened her eyes, and looking at Paul, said, " How 
 odd ! I just closed my eyes, and there I was in the gallery 
 when Nell disturbed me." And then, seeing the smile on 
 Paul's face, she exclaimed, " You wretch ! I believe you 
 had something to do with that." 
 
 " Not at all ! " returned he ; and then, rising, he added, 
 " Alas, I must be very dull to-day ; you were nearly asleep ! 
 Au revoir; when next we meet tell me what you think of 
 the opera." 
 
 " You will come soon very soon ? " 
 
 " With pleasure good-night." 
 
 As he made his adieux to the mother in the ante-loge he 
 caught sight of the man sitting by her side. A dark, hand- 
 some man with straight brows, a coarse mouth, and square 
 jaws. Paul looked at him inquisitively, and the man 
 returned the gaze without flinching : the next moment Paul 
 had left the box. Outside, in the corridor, he stopped 
 still for a moment, and then, looking on the ground, began 
 pacing up and down, muttering the while " Who is he ? 
 Who is he ? Where have I seen him before ? " 
 6
 
 82 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 From another box, during the next entre-acte, he saw him 
 again, talking in the front of the box with Miss Parthenia 
 Van Baulk'em. Then the whole drama came back to him. 
 Act i. A country village, a beautiful woman, a handsome 
 stranger. Act 2. A dishonoured wife, a wagging tongue, a 
 hurried flight. Act 3. South Belgravia, a " scene " or two, 
 and an outcast. That was all. And there was Charles 
 Sturton Baker, in superlative costume, displaying his hand- 
 some face in the Metropolitan Opera House. The Van 
 Baulk'ems had got him ! 
 
 Paul remembered the example of the eminent firm of soap- 
 boilers who made a large fortune by attending to their own 
 business, and strolled home in the moonlight, Baker, the 
 Van Baulk'ems, the opera, everything dismissed from his 
 mind by a mental picture of a little, lithe figure that lay 
 curled upon the huge divan, in Forty-first Street, looking at 
 the clock, and wondering whether " Gotterdammerung " was 
 one of the long operas, or whether he would be there soon. 
 
 A footstep in the hall-way, a rap at the door, and he is 
 there, kneeling at her feet and playing with that wondrous 
 hair, of which he used gayly to say, " the sunshine, when it 
 kissed it, turned to darkness for very envy." 
 
 " You are tired, my poor Paul the room is hot," she says, 
 passing her ridiculous handkerchief across his forehead. 
 
 " No, no, sweetheart it's not that I don't quite know 
 what it is ; it has come on quite suddenly." He looks into 
 her eyes until she seems to draw his very soul into hers, and 
 then, suddenly rising with an exclamation almost of pain, he 
 says : 
 
 " Do you know, Mahmourd, I don't think I'm as strong as 
 I used to be ? These mesmeric experiments I've been doing 
 lately seem to take a great deal more out of me than they 
 used to I've been feeling tired and distracted. But never 
 mind about me ; there is something I wanted to ask you 
 what was it ? oh, yes. Do you know anything of a man 
 named Charles Sturton Baker ? " 
 
 " Good heavens ! yes what of him ? "
 
 MESMERISM. 83 
 
 " He's here, in New York. I was in a box at the opera 
 with him to-night. What do you know about him ? " 
 
 " Well, not much that is definite beyond that affair about 
 
 poor little B ; you know all about that, I suppose. 
 
 After she went to grief, he used to hang about the theatre, 
 and played ' 'Inferno e Tommaso ' among the girls. He once 
 had the audacity to make love to me, and I had him thrown 
 out of the place by a scene-shifter. What's he up to now ? " 
 
 " I think he's going to marry Parthenia Van Baulk'em or 
 rather, her money." 
 
 " Well, let him ; they about suit one another." 
 
 " No ! After all, she's only a fool and he's a knave ; and 
 though, according to the dictum of the philosopher, the two 
 would make an interesting little microcosm, she doesn't 
 deserve such a fate as that. I'm sorry for her." 
 
 " Well, what can you do about it ? " 
 
 " Nothing. But, after all, Miss Parthenia knows I've 
 been all over the world, and perhaps she may ask me about 
 him." 
 
 " And if she does, cher ami, don't know anything about 
 the animal." 
 
 " That would hardly be fair, would it ? If a fellow can 
 protect a woman, surely he ought to do it eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course he ought ; but if you undertake to protect 
 a woman against an unscrupulous blackguard who happens 
 to be her lover, you will probably find yourself in a most 
 enterprising little mess. But sapristoche I Paul, since when 
 this concern for the little Van Baulk'em ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I think she's a clever little thing, for 
 all her vulgarity ; at any rate she's sharp, and I'd sooner 
 talk to her for half an hour than to nine out of ten of these 
 society women. Now, make me a scene of jealousy." 
 
 " Certainly ! Kiss me immediately ! " 
 
 ***#*# 
 
 " Paul," said Mahmoure, presently, when their conversa- 
 tion had turned into a more reasonable channel, " this mes- 
 merism of yours is killing you; I'm certain of it, and you
 
 84 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 must stop it. Every time you make your experiments with 
 me as a * subject,' I feel stronger and better than I did 
 before them ; but simultaneously you look paler and more 
 worn. Mon cher, with a physique like yours, you require all 
 your vital force to keep it going you musn't waste it on 
 me. What is the use, dear heart ? I am a dying woman ; 
 your absolute influence over me shows it, if nothing else ; 
 reserve your force for some fresh young subject who won't 
 sap your energies as I do." 
 
 " Tiens ! listen to her ! here is Mahmoure posing as a 
 charming little vampire ! Why, darling, I've a great deal 
 more strength than I want for myself, and if I can make 
 over the surplus to you by mesmerizing you, you ought to 
 be as glad of it as I am. But come, we waste time. You 
 remember that experiment we made when I sent your soul 
 across the sea, and you told me what was going on in a 
 house in London well, I want to carry that experience still 
 further. I am going to mesmerize you and to try to identify 
 your soul with that of someone over there, and learn what 
 that someone is thinking about as well as doing" 
 
 " But, Paul, it's not possible." 
 
 " Perhaps not, but we can try. If we succeed, after all 
 it's only a progression in the clairvoyant experiences with 
 which we have been so successful. It depends, I think, only 
 on one thing, and that is, the existence of a personality over 
 there identical with your own or mine ; if such exists you 
 will be able, if my will is strong enough to direct you, to 
 identify yourself psychologically with some man or woman 
 over there, for whom, if you knew them in the flesh, you would 
 feel an affinity that would make me madly jealous. Come, 
 let us try ; the result, if we attain it, will be an enormous 
 one." 
 
 " Very well, Paul but promise not to over-exert your- 
 self." 
 
 " Bah ! what a timid little woman it is ! Now, make your- 
 self comfortable." 
 
 And Mahmoure du Peyral to call her for the first time
 
 MESMERISM. 85 
 
 by her new, real name settled herself among the cushions 
 of the divan. 
 
 " Look into my eyes there ! be quiet quiet ah ! so ; " 
 and Paul put his hand on the forehead of the woman, who 
 sighed deeply and closed her eyes. " So you are asleep, 
 are you not ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Where are you ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Who are you ? " 
 
 " I cannot say." 
 
 " You are in a room ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How is it furnished ? " 
 
 "As a studio." 
 
 " Is there a looking-glass in it T" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Look into it and describe yourself." [A pause.] 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " A tall woman with dark hair a man is by my side 
 Eric!" 
 
 " Who is Eric ? " 
 
 " Oh ! don't you know ? he is my lover, my good, brave 
 Eric." 
 
 " Is there a writing-table in the studio ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " There are letters addressed to you lying on it. Read 
 me the address of one of them." 
 
 " Miss Preault, The Cottage, Holland Street, W. 
 
 " What is the name ? " 
 
 "Miss Prdault." 
 
 "Daphne?" 
 
 " Yes yes who called me ? Eric ! my darling, there is 
 some one in the room ; oh, my love, help ! " and the 
 little figure on the divan began to writhe as if in terror. 
 
 Paul du Peyral, trembling with the effort and excitement, 
 took the beautiful head in his hands and blew softly upon
 
 86 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 the forehead once or twice. The convulsions ceased slowly, 
 and Mahmoure opened her eyes. Seeing Paul leaning over 
 her, she threw her arms around his neck and, in the terror 
 and excitement of the moment, burst into tears. 
 
 "Come, come, sweetheart," said he; "I have tried you 
 too much. Ah ! but this is horrible wicked dangerous ! 
 Do you know where your soul has been ? " 
 
 " No, dear, only I thought you were changed, over there, 
 or here, or wherever it was, till I felt a terrible pain and 
 woke up." 
 
 Paul was the first to recover himself. " Mahmoure," said 
 he, " we have trifled with a great power, and its working has 
 been more mysterious than I anticipated ; more strange, 
 more marvellous than I ever could have dreamed. Do you 
 know that your soul found that of Daphne Preault ? " 
 
 " What ? of the woman you were to have married ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Oh, Paul, never let us do this again ; it is not right." 
 
 " On the contrary, with your help I shall at last be able to 
 find out something about this strange young woman but 
 not now ; you are tired, and I must leave you. I have much 
 to do, much to think of, to-night ; to-morrow we will talk of 
 this again. Now, good-night ; in half an hour you must be 
 fast asleep do you hear ? " 
 
 " Yes, Paul ; " and after a last wild embrace, he was gone. 
 
 " At last ! at last ! " he cried to himself, as he reached his 
 own rooms and began rapidly jotting down some notes in a 
 little book with a lock-clasp. " Through Mahmoure I shall 
 have this woman this Miss Preault in my power ; what 
 does it mean ? Is it that the same blood runs in both our 
 veins, as old Preault used to tell me sometimes. What it 
 that old story of our common ancestry were true ? How else 
 account for the identity of our personalities ? for, unless my 
 researches have led me astray, it must be that which caused 
 Mahmoure to single her out as the object of her search for 
 a sympathy in Europe. Oh, Grand Principle of Life ! if 
 you are indeed capable of obedience to command, solve me
 
 MESMERISM. 87 
 
 your secret ; whisper the solution of this mystery to me to 
 me, Paul du Peyral ! if only to reward me for the sacrifice 
 to you of the best years of my life, of my health, of my very 
 soul." 
 
 He rose and began pacing the room ; suddenly he 
 stopped, and raising his arms in the air, cried : 
 
 " Daphne Prdault ! if you and I are indeed one in soul, 
 and breathe with the same life-current running through our 
 veins, show yourself to me to me to me ! " 
 
 Then, suddenly a wild pain gripped his heart, the room 
 grew black around him, and there stood before the eyes of 
 his super-excited imagination a woman such as we have 
 described Daphne Preault, but having the features, almost 
 the face, of Paul du Peyral. Then he fell senseless upon 
 his face, in which condition his body-servant found him next 
 morning. 
 
 " Not a word of this to Madame di Zulueta," said he ; 
 and the magnificently trained menial gave him an assurance, 
 which his long experience of that individual's inflexible men- 
 dacity told him was to be implicitly trusted. 
 
 And so, for the next few days, he went about as usual, 
 nothing altered in his manner to Mahmoure' or to the world, 
 but now and then catching his breath for an instant, and 
 looking a trifle whiter round the eyes. 
 
 On Sunday afternoon he paid his promised visit' to the 
 Van Baulk'ems. 
 
 He had not been there more than a few minutes when the 
 fair Parthenia, corralling him into a corner, asked sud- 
 denly : 
 
 " Do you know Mr. Baker an Englishman ? " 
 
 " Mr. Charles Sturton Baker ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, no, I can't say I do. I came across him some 
 years ago, but though I was presented to him, I can hardly 
 say I know him." 
 
 " He is very charming, is he not ? " 
 
 " Well, that is a question entirely for you to answer ; you
 
 88 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 know the English are a queer people, and have a different 
 standard from ours ; many actions which we look upon as 
 blackguardly, they, I believe, look upon as quite the right 
 thing to do. I am hardly a judge ; Mr. Baker has done 
 things that I think infamous, but he may be charming ' for 
 a' that. 1 " 
 
 " But he moves in the best society in England or might, 
 only that he is a quiet, domesticated kind of man, and does 
 not care about it." 
 
 " Well, I should say that you have formed a misconcep- 
 tion concerning him ; he is distinctly what I should call a 
 'fast.' man. But, after all, he only takes up the oppor- 
 tunities afforded him by human nature in the class of society 
 in which he moves. As for his going into ' the best society,' 
 I should hardly say that was correct ; I believe that my 
 'set,' in London, is pretty good, and I never met him there. 
 I have only come across him in a rather ' rowdy ' country- 
 house, where he was having a desperate flirtation with a 
 child of sixteen." 
 
 " Is he not very well connected ? " 
 
 " No I think not. In fact, I think that he is rather by 
 way of being an absolute nobody ; I may be wrong if you 
 like I'll find out for you." 
 
 "Well, I should rather like to know; but you won't men- 
 tion me, will you ? " 
 
 " Of course not ! " 
 
 And so the conversation dropped, and presently Paul 
 sought " fresh teas and houses new," and thought no more 
 about the ten-minutes' chat that was to have such an 
 influence upon the fortunes of himself and Mahmoure di 
 Zulueta. 
 
 It was not till that evening that an idea on the subject 
 occurred to him. Said he to himself : " That little girl is 
 evidently crazily in love with Baker ; I wonder if young 
 Hawleigh knows anything about him." And the practical 
 form his idea took was to write and ask full particulars con- 
 cerning the handsome adventurer from Gabriel Hawleigh,
 
 MESMERISM. 89 
 
 whom he had met in a little French village some years 
 before, and whom he recollected as a young English Bohem- 
 ian, who seemed to know everybody who had ever lived, by 
 sight, name, or reputation. 
 
 He wrote, merely asking if Gabriel knew anything definite 
 against the man, and if he did not, to send a " kind " letter, 
 " not as a guarantee of good faith, but for publication." 
 
 Whilst it passed across the sea, he continued his experi- 
 ments with Mahmoure', learning by degrees, with an accu- 
 racy resulting from the marvellous coincidences of their 
 three personalities, almost as much about the Princess 
 Daphne as the Princess knew about herself. 
 
 And so the world wagged, day following day, and causes 
 developing eternally into effects. 
 
 Now, Gabriel Hawleigh's recollections of the days he had 
 spent in a French village on the Biscayan coast were not as 
 distinct as those of the young American who had shared his 
 self-imposed exile, and on receiving Paul du Peyral's letter it 
 took him an appreciable time to remember who Paul du 
 Peyral was. Gradually, however, the memory of those half- 
 forgotten days returned to him, and he turned his attention 
 to the object of the enquiry. Charles Sturton Baker was 
 one of those mysterious individuals that one comes across 
 periodically in the more careless section of London society ; 
 one of those young men who, clustered about the door- 
 ways of semi-public or subscription balls, compare offensive 
 notes on the wives and sisters of their friends ; who wear 
 ribbed shirt-fronts and single studs, cylindrical collars, satin 
 ties, and self-satisfied smirks ; and who, when the hours of 
 labour in the far-eastern " City " are at an end, take the 
 Underground Railway, and are swallowed up by the deserts 
 of Belsize or Bayswater, by inaccessible North-Western 
 suburbs, miles beyond the comparatively civilized spots 
 " where omnibusses turn round." 
 
 We have said that he was handsome ; add to this that his 
 mysterious occupation in the murky orient supplied him with 
 the wherewithal to satisfy the lower cravings of his sensual
 
 90 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 nature, and hide the essential feebleness of his mind behind 
 the venal adulation of impecunious clerks, and caused the 
 said clerks to regard his triumphal progress along Piccadilly 
 on Saturday afternoons, in a hansom, with some Lottie or 
 Tottie of the ballet, as evidence of his claims to the titles of 
 " devil of a fellow " and " rare good sort." The frisky 
 matrons of his inaccessible suburb, "the squaws of the 
 north-west frontier tribes," as Dick Lindsay used to say, 
 hearing of his reckless lavishings in the matter of Gaiety 
 stalls and five-shilling cab-fares, got up quite a little excite- 
 ment about this provincial Lothario; and the ladies whom 
 he honoured with dishonour were looked upon almost with 
 reverence by the compulsorily virtuous remainder. And, 
 by-the-by, he had crept into a calling acquaintance with the 
 Holland Street colony, via the Miss Eastons, whom he had 
 met at a subscripto-suburban ball, at the Kensington Town- 
 Hall. 
 
 Therefore Gabriel, though loth to commit himself, could 
 hardly profess entire ignorance of the swain, but could not 
 be said to know anything either for or against him. He had 
 seen him a member of a party of men at a music-hall, and 
 paraphrasing the saying of the French philosopher, " La 
 nuit tons les homines sont gris" did not regard as a crime the 
 fact that he had been disorderly, and, in vulgar parlance, 
 " chucked out." That he was over-dressed did not matter 
 much. After all, if one cuts one's coat according to one's 
 cloth, one wears it according to one's income and educa- 
 tion ; and to him Mr. Baker was a tasteless young man who 
 wore very good clothes very badly. He therefore replied to 
 Paul du Peyral, that he knew nothing against the man as a 
 man, and that he was a harmless, stupid kind of thing who 
 couldn't do anyone any harm ; and armed with this non- 
 committal reply, which he thought would close the matter 
 satisfactorily for all parties, Paul strolled up to the Van 
 Baulk'ems', and showed it to the fair Parthenia. She 
 received it in silence, thanked M. du Peyral for the trouble
 
 MESMERISM. 91 
 
 he had taken, and the incident, as far as he was concerned, 
 was apparently terminated. 
 
 " After all," thought he, " abuse of one man by another is 
 very much like mud splashed up by an unconscious cart ; a 
 modicum of it is sure to stick, according to the proverb ; but 
 even that modicum, black and sticky as it is when it's wet, 
 turns white or at any rate gray when it's dry, and is easily 
 brushed off ; and I've no doubt the fair Parthenia will rather 
 enjoy the process of brushing than otherwise. Besides, it 
 is possible that Baker has become steadied down, and has 
 repented the rascalities of his fevered youth." 
 
 And so he returned to his solitude and to Mahmoure, and 
 to his absorbing interest in his psychical experiments, which 
 he concealed beneath the ostensible search after knowledge 
 in the studies of the Sparrow, the Mosquito, and the House- 
 fly. 
 
 The constantly recurring " Psychical Romance " may be 
 described as an intellectual nightmare resulting from the 
 literary indigestion of the day, an indigestion produced by a 
 surfeit of Wilkie Collins, Stevenson, Hugh Conway, and 
 Mrs. Crow ; and lest I lay myself open to the reproach of 
 swelling the mass of " weird " literature of the past decennium, 
 I beg the reader to skip the following exposition of Paul's 
 discoveries in Mesmerism and Telepathy, but to remember 
 that I have set them out, and to recur to them for an explana- 
 tion should the spirit move him presently to fling aside the 
 book with the exclamation, " Bah ! another attempt to pano- 
 ply platitude with the dim magnificence of mystery ! " if he 
 is in the habit of using this sort of language to himself. 
 
 Shortly, the result of his investigations, arrived at after 
 months nay years of wasted tissue and brain-power, was 
 as follows. The whole matter resolves itself into one of 
 sympathy. Two persons are presented to one another : the 
 one has a personality a vital force represented by the 
 numeral six ; the other has a vital force represented by the 
 figure two. Very well ! They try to converse : at first the 
 conversation is spasmodic, choppy, uninteresting, carried on
 
 92 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 at cross purposes as it were ; gradually, however, the mere 
 physical propinquity lessens this mental discrepancy, and 
 before long they get interested in i.e. they understand 
 one another. The higher force lowers itself in proportion 
 as the lower force rises, till at last the two are said to be 
 " in sympathy with one another." They almost know one 
 another's thoughts ; each can almost guess what the other is 
 going to say next : they no longer require to explain their 
 respective meanings minutely ; an unfinished sentence, a 
 word, a look, conveys a whole thesis on the point under dis- 
 cussion. They are reciprocally charmed, for they feel them- 
 selves to be on an intellectual level with one another ; in a 
 phrase to recur they no longer represent the contrast of 
 six and two, but each giving to and taking from the other, 
 they represent at the end of the conversation the uniform 
 vital force of four each. Mesmerism is an acceleration of 
 this process by an effort of will ; Telepathy is a higher devel- 
 opment of it. And in Mesmerism or Telepathy the one 
 mind conveys to the other, to be acted upon, the thoughts 
 that are uppermost at the moment within itself. 
 
 In the almost clairvoyant experiences of Paul and Mah- 
 moure, this had occurred to a high degree, and had been 
 very powerfully assisted by the coincidences of the personal- 
 ities of Paul and Daphne Preault, united as they seemed to 
 be by some distant tie of Creole ancestry. Mahmoure' being 
 powerfully attracted to, and acted upon by, Paul, there was 
 no doubt but that Daphne would possess the same influence 
 over her ; and, following the natural laws of attraction, it was 
 not surprising that her spirit should seek that of the Prin- 
 cess, living as the latter did amid associations doubtless 
 familiar to Paul, and being, beyond all, the soul in which 
 Paul's interest was principally centred in Europe. 
 
 People who " see ghosts " are generally looked upon either 
 as mystics or as rather weak-minded subjects by the rest of 
 the community ; this is because we always feel a certain unea- 
 siness in the presence of an eccentricity. If that eccentricity 
 is one beyond our comprehension, we revere its author ; if it
 
 MESMERISM. 93 
 
 is one that we can criticise and examine, familiarity breeds 
 contempt, and we despise him. Reverence and despite are 
 merely developments of fear. Ghost-seers come under either 
 the first or the second category, according to their talkative- 
 ness. The uncommunicative ghost-seer is feared nay, he 
 is thought a trifle mad ; the communicative ghost-seer, on 
 the other hand, is laughed at, and considered a raconteur or 
 an ass, according to his powers of eloquence. Now, follow- 
 ing the theory of Paul du Peyral, a ghost is nothing more 
 than a coincidence of condition occurring between two per- 
 sons at the same moment, by which coincidence the illusion 
 or rather phenomenon of the appearance of the one to 
 the other is produced. 
 
 To recur to the doctrine of sympathy established between 
 two people who are conversing with one another : At a 
 given point, maybe, their personalities find one another in 
 absolute or perfect coincidence. The result of this is, as a 
 rule, love : courtship is a continual search after a renewal of 
 those conditions ; marriage a more or less successful effort, 
 as the case may be, to establish a new sympathy on a new 
 plane. 
 
 However, to return : The sight of another person is 
 merely the effort of a certain excitement on the visual seg- 
 ment of one's brain ; when the sympathy, perfect, absolute, 
 of which we have spoken has been established, that excite- 
 ment becomes a very strong one. Two persons look into 
 one another's eyes, and through their eyes into their souls ; 
 the impression made is necessarily very forcibly stamped on 
 the memory, and it is not so much an impression of the 
 outer form under contemplation, as one of the inner soul 
 that shines out in the gaze. Now if, at any future time, by 
 reason of the one person thinking of the other with any 
 strong effort of cerebration, by a rare coincidence that other 
 person finds himself in the same vital condition at the same 
 numeral of personality, in the same state of sympathy and 
 degree of attraction as he did on the occasion when the 
 sympathy was originally established, then, the conditions of
 
 94 THE M/A'CSS DAPHNE. 
 
 the mind being the same, the same impression will be con- 
 veyed by the optic nerves to the brain, and the effect is pro- 
 duced of the appearance of the one person to the other, 
 which, for want of a better term, has become called " a 
 ghost." 
 
 It is rare for each to appear to the other at the same time ; 
 the coincidence of thought, effort, and personal condition is 
 too remotely possible : it is the person who makes the effort 
 who either sees the object of his mental strain, or, if his 
 thoughts are centred upon its present occupation, appears to 
 that object. 
 
 And so, every effort of thought of which Paul du Peyral 
 was capable being concentrated upon the woman whom, in 
 the body, he had never seen, he was wont to call up her 
 mental picture with a vividness that gave to her spectre all 
 the attributes of substantial form ; and adopting her as a 
 subject for his experiments, which chance, coincidence 
 call it what you will had flung in his way, he pursued his 
 investigations with all the devotion of a savant, and at the 
 expense of his life.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. 
 
 THE " tempera mutant ur " principle, as far as this story is 
 concerned, holds good in Europe as it does in America and 
 elsewhere ; and whilst Paul du Peyral and Mahmoure led 
 their separated though identical lives in New York, time 
 had wrought its changes in the Holland Street colony, though 
 that time was measured by months only, and not by longer 
 periods. Spring had arrived and was growing old ; already, 
 at intervals of a week or so, the sun shone so brightly that 
 the shades were closed on the sunny sides of the streets, 
 giving them the appearance of having been struck blind 
 with astonishment at the fine weather, after the fog and rain 
 and slush of the metropolitan merry spring-time. 
 
 In Holland Street, grimy persons had appeared, and had 
 borne thence carefully protected canvases, to deposit them 
 for approval or rejection at the doors of Burlington House ; 
 in a word, "Show Sunday" had come and gone, and hearts 
 beat high with hope or apprehension ; whilst " the boys " 
 who had sent in their Academy pictures rested a little on 
 their oars, or rather brushes, and awaited the official in 
 timation of what ? Most of our personal friends if we 
 may call them so had launched an argosy on the sea of 
 public appreciation ; but all of them awaited with some 
 anxiety the fate of Gabriel Hawleigh's picture, " Sunshine 
 in the Fog," which had fulfilled its early promise of excel- 
 lence, and was regarded as the chef-d 'mivre of the colony. 
 
 To Gabriel himself, though he said but little on the subject, 
 the acceptance or rejection of this picture by the hanging 
 committee meant everything a large word, but the only 
 one which properly expresses the case. Into it he felt he 
 
 95
 
 96 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 had put the very best work of which he was capable ; he 
 knew that he could do no better, and that if this were " found 
 wanting " he had better abandon art as a means of livelihood, 
 once and for all ; and this reflection occurring often to him 
 in the midst of his wildest rhapsodies with his violin, he 
 would drop his instrument from his shoulder and sink for 
 hours into a revery on the Future and Maye. She, on her 
 side, said but little about the picture ; but the Princess 
 Daphne was an angel of hope to him, and never for an in- 
 stant assumed anything on the possibility of the rejection of 
 his masterpiece, but urged him to work in anticipation of 
 his popularity as an artist, which she regarded as a very 
 proximate certainty. 
 
 " There will be a great demand," she used to say to him ; 
 " mind the supply is ready to meet it ; and, for heaven's 
 sake, don't sell your old rejected trash on the strength of 
 this big work of yours. You can do that later, when your 
 hold on the public is strong enough to defy the dangers of 
 dilution with inferior work. Remember, Gabriel, and keep 
 Maye's happiness in your mind as the lodestar of your ener- 
 gies." 
 
 Maye herself was placidly content with her existence or 
 outwardly so, at any rate ; deep in her heart, if the truth 
 must be confessed, lay a gnawing agony that had usurped a 
 place there ever since the " engagement " of Eric Trevanion 
 and the Princess Daphne had been announced. Their 
 liaison had been published to the colony under the title of a 
 betrothal, though it was as impossible to get anything out 
 of Daphne concerning her future marriage as it had been 
 to extract information on the subject of her past history. 
 Eric practically spent all his time with her, and seemed to 
 have abandoned his profession of flaneur of the studios ; 
 and men spoke still more reverently of the Princess in his 
 presence, standing unconsciously in something like awe of 
 the man whom Daphne Preault had selected as her future 
 husband if not, as was whispered, as her present lover 
 from amid the army of aspirants.
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. 
 
 97 
 
 He seldom touched his palette or spoilt good canvas now- 
 a-days. They had been but an occupation for idle hours at 
 best, and now his occupation was Daphne ; and, as he had 
 but one pleasure, and that was to sit with her whilst she 
 worked, she had fitted up a second and more substantial 
 writing-table in her spacious studio, and tried to make him 
 take seriously to literature, and make some use of his 
 undoubted cleverness, his knowledge of the world, and his 
 very exceptional education. 
 
 Unfortunately, as a Htt'eratetir, Eric was an epigrammatist 
 rather than a word-painter, and he seldom got beyond titles 
 of striking and remarkable originality, for essays, which, 
 when they were written, took the form of a collection of 
 aphorisms, spicules of epigram embedded in a protoplasm 
 of commonplace, the whole vivifying a spongy mass which 
 absorbed the ideas of other people rather than originated 
 new ones of its own. There are many writers for the 
 most part young ones in the present day to whom this 
 description applies, and publishers look askant upon works 
 which are gems of literary composition rather than of imag- 
 inative construction. And Eric's masterpieces : " An Indigo 
 Inspiration by a Blue Bard " (written in a moment of depres- 
 sion) ; his " Petrifaction of Passion, a Pathological Prob- 
 lem " (written when his vocabulary of eulogy of the Princess 
 had suddenly dried up) ; and several similarly entitled effu- 
 sions reposed peacefully in the pigeon-hole that he described 
 as the " Walhalla of Rejected Addresses," and over which 
 he had inscribed on a strip of gummed label, " Lasciate ogni 
 speranza, voi ch* entrate /" "Abandon hope all ye who enter 
 here ! " 
 
 Still, the ill luck of his manuscripts caused him no pity 
 for himself, only contempt for them. The allowance made 
 to him by his father was an ample one, and any caprices he 
 might have had he might very well have satisfied ; but as it 
 was, he had but one thought in life Daphne ! To be by 
 her side, to hold her in his arms and tell her all over again 
 how he loved her that was all he wanted ; and as Daphne 
 7
 
 98 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 was of a practically identical opinion, the studio in Holland 
 Street was certainly one of the happiest places in the world. 
 
 Eric Trevanion had perhaps but one thorn in the flesh, and 
 that was Clytemnestra, the coloured woman, who jealously 
 guarded her mistress' lightest actions, and strenuously ob- 
 jected to Eric, not so much on the ground of his being a new 
 master for herself, as on the ground that he stood in quasi- 
 authority over her mistress. Clytie had no moral scruples 
 of any kind, but, with the cunning of her race, with that 
 devotion of self and that selfishness for others that char- 
 acterizes the darkie, she was convinced that her mission 
 in life was to bring about the marriage of the Princess 
 Daphne and Paul du Peyral, whom, though she had never 
 seen, of course she knew all about. 
 
 Clytie had been owned by Victor Preault, his father had 
 owned her father, his grandfather her grandfather; gener- 
 ation after generation of master and slave had looked after 
 one another, and the ideas of freedom, and a vote, and the 
 College of Surgeons were, to Clytie, iconoclastic institutions 
 which she strenuously objected to take in place of the com- 
 panionship of Daphne, her red bandanna head-gear, and her 
 own mnemonic storehouse of Voodoo pharmaceutical knowl- 
 edge. 
 
 Clytie's mind was a magazine of Creole legendary history 
 and historic legend. As long as she could remember, 
 Daphne had been accustomed to listen almost unconsciously, 
 when Clytie was in the vicinity, to stories of the bayous and 
 swamps of Louisiana, of the early settlers of New Orleans, 
 of D'Iberville, of Bienville, of the Chevalier Le Blond de la 
 Tour, of Indian raids, and of massacres by the Chickasaws, 
 the Choctaws, and the Natchez. Anon her tales would be of 
 the Spanish rule of 1760 to 1770, of the patriot merchants 
 such as Milhet, d'Abbadie, and Preault, of the landing of 
 Don Antonio de Ulloa, and, later'of the Irish Spaniard, Don 
 Alexander O'Reilly, " Cruel O'Reilly " as he was still called 
 in Louisianian folk-lore, of de Unzaga, of de Galvez ; in a 
 word, Clytie could have dictated a complete Creole history,
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. 99 
 
 correct in its chronology, and fictitious only in its facts. 
 But it was as the chronicler, the trouvere of the Preault 
 family, to an ancestor of which an ancestor of hers had been 
 sold in all his picturesque insufficiency of costume, that Clyde 
 came out strong. Clytie fondly imagined that, the idol she 
 wore around her neck had originally belonged to this ances- 
 tor it was a shapelessly human affair, which had done duty 
 in turn for correct and lifelike representations of Voodoo, of 
 Obi, of Gitche-Manito, of the Madonna, of Martin Luther, of 
 the Saviour, and of Jefferson Davis and when she lectured 
 Daphne on her Creole ancestry, she was wont to refer to 
 said idol, whose existence at the time said events did not 
 take place was, to her, conclusive evidence of their historical 
 accuracy : and it was upon one of these family legends, well 
 known among all the branches of the Preault family, that 
 she based her efforts to induce Daphne to reconsider her 
 contemptuous refusal of Paul du Peyral. 
 
 Clyde's legend of the Preault and du Peyral families was 
 a remarkable chronicle, based on a good deal of historic fact, 
 and embroidered with a good deal of historic fiction. I pre- 
 fer, therefore, to tell the story in my own words, shorn of 
 much ornamental eloquence, but enriched with a certain 
 amount of careful research among the archives of the city of 
 New Orleans. In the year 1718, Bienville had succeeded 
 Epinay as Governor of Louisiana, and affairs in the colony 
 were governed principally in conformity to the require- 
 ments of John Law's " Mississippi Company" the South- 
 Sea Bubble that was to explode with such terrific violence 
 two years later. Among the 800 emigrants that landed at 
 Dauphine Island on the 25th of August, 1718, was one 
 Hippolyte du Peyral, an engineer, who formed one of the 
 little band of pioneers who might have been seen in 1720, 
 headed by the Sieur Le Blond de la Tour, " garbed as a 
 knight of St. Louis, modified as might be by the exigencies 
 of the frontier, " marking off streets and lots planning, in a 
 word, the city of New Orleans. 
 
 There are doubtless many of my readers to whom New
 
 IOO THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 Orleans would be an undiscovered country were it not for 
 the Abbe Pre'vost and " Manon Lescaut. " I refer to this 
 work because, if the truth must be told, the colony was then 
 in the condition described by Prevost i.e., in what might be 
 called a state of troglodytish simplicity as regards its social 
 institutions, and the female society of New Orleans was com- 
 posed, exception being made in favour of the wives of a few 
 of the officials, and those of the French and Canadian set- 
 tlers, of ladies who had loved not wisely but too well, if not 
 too promiscuously, in France, and had, after going through 
 a term of probation at the Salpetriere and St. Lazare, been 
 shipped off by a paternal government to supply the rugged 
 colonists with the gentle influences and reproductive advan- 
 tages which are the prerogatives of the beau sexe. Unless 
 these ladies are traduced by their historian, they appear to 
 have drunk, gambled, and fought on terms of perfect equal- 
 ity with their lords and masters, or, to put it tersely, their 
 proprietors. But among them, a damsel of a finer mould 
 than the generality fell to the lot of Hippolyte du Peyral, 
 and to him was born, within a pistol-shot of the ancient and 
 modern Place d'Armes, a beautiful daughter. This child 
 was some six or seven years old when the gentle Ursuline 
 Sisters established their convent and hospital on what was 
 then called Arsenal Street; and her mother having suc- 
 cumbed to the ravages of the colonial climate and social 
 laxity, du Peyral was glad enough to find there an asylum 
 where the child would be secure from the influences of the 
 almost primeval condition of affairs in the young city, no 
 less than from the periodical raids of Chickasaws and 
 Natchez. 
 
 In the winter of 1727-28 I quote from the pages of the 
 Creole historian, G. W. Cable a crowning benefit was 
 reached. On the Levee, jus~t in front of the Place d'Armes, 
 the motley public of the wild town was gathered to see a 
 goodly sight. A ship had come across the sea and up the 
 river, with the most precious of all possible earthly cargoes. 
 
 She had tied up against the grassy, willow-planted bank,
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. IOI 
 
 and there were coming ashore, and grouping together in the 
 Place d'Armes, under escort of the Ursuline nuns, a good 
 threescore, not of houseless girls from the streets of Paris, 
 as heretofore, but of maidens from the hearthstones of 
 France, to be disposed of, under the discretion of the nuns, in 
 marriage. And then there were brought ashore, and were 
 set down in the rank grass, many small, stout chests of 
 clothing. There was a trunk for each maiden, and a maiden 
 for each trunk, and both maidens and trunks were the gifts 
 of the king. Similar companies came in subsequent years, 
 and the girls with trunks were long known in the traditions 
 of their colonial descendants by the honourable distinction 
 of the "filles a la cassette" the casket girls. 
 
 Hippolyte du Peyral was a substantial citizen, standing 
 high in the good graces of the pious sisters, and he was one 
 of the first to take to his home among the new plantations of 
 Louisiana, a gentle, sweet-tempered helpmate, his lawful 
 wife, a healthy Provengale of some twenty summers. This 
 good couple lived to an equally good old age, and like the 
 worthies of nursery romance, died regretted by all who knew 
 them, leaving a family of stalwart young colonials who 
 founded the du Peyral family, which had accordingly flour- 
 ished in the state until war, fever, transferrence from one 
 government to another, and other disturbing influences had 
 dwindled the old stock down to concentration in the person 
 of M. Paul du Peyral. the protege and heir of old Preault of 
 Baton Rouge. Thus, after a lapse of a century and a half, 
 the parent stock had been thrown together again by chance ; 
 for the nameless daughter of Hippolyte du Peyral, having 
 arrived at years of indiscretion, had run away from the con- 
 vent and married a handsome, wild pioneer, by name 
 Preault, and had scattered through the state a small but ex- 
 clusively Creole race of Preaults ; a family not, alas ! without 
 its place in the scandalous history of Louisiana, for the hered- 
 itary taint seemed to be fatally constant, and ever and anon 
 the blood of the girl who had enslaved the fancy of 
 Hippolyte du Peyral would crop out, and produce a woman
 
 102 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 of gorgeous meridional beauty and dazzling personality, 
 half-tame and half-savage, a type that might be seen in its 
 perfect development in Daphne Pre'ault, the exile, the Prin- 
 cess of the Holland Street colony, in a word, the pure- 
 blooded Bohemian. 
 
 Now, the historic outlines and the romantic details of this 
 family history were cherished with true negro persistency by 
 Clytemnestra, the ex-bondwoman ; and the dream of her 
 darkie soul was to see the old stock of Hippolyte du Peyral 
 reunited in the persons of Paul and the Princess Daphne, 
 and therefore, when the latter indignantly scorned the con- 
 dititions of her second cousin's will, in refusing to marry 
 Paul, Clyde held that she was flying in the face of Provi- 
 dence, and valourously invoked the assistance of her multi- 
 fold deity in jade, to bring about this consummation, to her 
 so devoutly to be wished for. 
 
 I have dealt with this family history at some length 
 because it accounts in a great measure for the sympathy in 
 a way, a tie of blood that existed between these two strong 
 Creole personalities, separated from one another though 
 they were, by half a hemisphere ; a sympathy which led in 
 so large a degree to the denouement of this veracious nar- 
 rative. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that to Clyde, from 
 whom no secret of her mistress' life was concealed, the posi- 
 tion of Eric in the Holland Street manage of the Princess 
 Daphne was a never-failing source of annoyance ; an annoy- 
 ance that she dared not openly show to the principals in this 
 drama, but which made itself felt continually, and especially 
 to Eric, who, early in the game, rechristened Clytie, ' ; Ones- 
 ima, his thorn in the flesh." 
 
 Without risking the reception of a frown from Daphne^ 
 which though theoretically less baleful, was practically far 
 more awful to Clytie, than the curse of Obi or the incanta- 
 tion of Voodoo, this antagonism caused itself to be very dis- 
 tinctly perceived on such occasions as she found it necessary 
 in the pursuit of her professional avocations to enter his 
 presence, as, for instance, when she would come in to lay
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. 103 
 
 lea at five o'clock ; and then a vague feeling of easiness 
 would come over Eric as he sat at his writing-table, from 
 whence he could watch the Princess at her work. Under- 
 lying all Daphne's love for him, his super-sensitive nature 
 fancied that there existed a feeling of superiority that only 
 wanted one earthly touch to make it contempt; and this 
 was a sensation he had never been able entirely to get over : 
 it would impress him with a vague feeling of discontent in 
 little scenes such as the following, which were of pretty con- 
 stant recurrence. 
 
 It was five o'clock, and Eric had been enjoying himself 
 vastly, writing an essay high-flown, satirical, paradoxical 
 entitled, " The Praise of Publishers, by one of their Vic- 
 tims." The light was nearly gone, and Daphne sat in front 
 of her easel painting somewhat abstractedly, playing, rather, 
 with some of the details of her nearly finished picture. Eric 
 had just concluded his essay with the paraphrase, " He 
 who writes with nought to say, finds his labour thrown 
 away," and, Clyde having set the tea-things with something 
 like aggression of manner, he laid down his pen and looked 
 at the Princess. She was leaning back in her chair, looking 
 lazy and satisfied with her work, now and then making a 
 little dab for some particular point, until the light, as far as 
 painting was concerned, had died out. Then she laid down 
 her palette and brushes, stretched her toes out in front of 
 her, clasped her hands at the back of her head, and rested 
 so, in contemplation of the canvas. 
 
 That silence fell which seems to envelop every death, even 
 that of the daylight. No sound disturbs the stillness of 
 the studio till the fire stumbles into a frejh fantasy of fallen 
 cinders, the ashes burst out upon the hearth, and "new- 
 born night begins its little life." 
 
 The day has risen and lived its life, it fades and dies, and 
 as it dies there is a moment of stillness that proclaims its 
 death: another life takes its place " Le Jour est mort ; vive 
 laNuitl" 
 
 Daphne yawns, stretches her long arms again, and rising,
 
 104 TIIE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 approaches the fire, where she throws herself into the big 
 lounge as she did on the night that she surrendered herself 
 to Eric, and by degrees settles herself into absolute comfort. 
 Eric has been so quiet that she has almost forgotten his ex- 
 istence, when suddenly he startles her if so placid a person 
 as the Princess Daphne can ever be said to be startled by 
 bounding from his seat with an exclamation that partakes 
 of the dual natures of a roar and a snort, and paces up and 
 down the floor, until Daphne, without looking at him, 
 remarks : 
 
 "Well! what are you playing at Polar bear in a cage 
 for ? " 
 
 " I swear ! " he exclaims (" Don't ! " says she). " I 
 swear," he continues, " I'll never write another line, and I'll 
 burn every paper that I've ever slung ink upon ! " and he 
 comes to the fire and takes up his position before her r in the 
 attitude peculiar to and favoured by the Englishman of patri- 
 otic instinct. 
 
 Hard as steel, and with a little playful sneer, come the 
 words from Daphne's lips : 
 
 "Why this sudden philanthropy ? Why heap these bless- 
 ings on the heads of undeserving publishers ? Pause ! 
 reflect ! gracious lord of mine, ere you inflict such priva- 
 tion on helpless humanity on the world that hungers for 
 the glorious fruit of your transcendent genius, and that has 
 deserved no such salutary punishment at your hands. Let 
 me plead for the world ! Oh, write one more Assyrian 
 farce, one more essay ' On the Morals and Pathology of 
 the non-existent races of Central America,' before the fiat 
 goes forth and the doom is sealed ! " And she clasps her 
 hands as if in prayer, as, with a fascinating moue of mock 
 seriousness, she sinks on her knees from the big lounge, 
 before him. 
 
 Eric looked down at her. He made no attempt to hide 
 the pain her levity caused him. She saw it, and her hands 
 fell, as she remained seated on the bear-skin rug, leaning 
 against the sofa behind her.
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. 1 05 
 
 " I'm blue unhappy disappointed," he said ; " why do 
 you sneer at instead of encouraging me ? " 
 
 " Because you live in the nineteenth century and your 
 books are those of the monks of the middle ages. Your 
 standard works might be entitled ' Auctorum ignotorum 
 omnia qua non supersunt' ' The forgotten works of unknown 
 authors ! ' and your romances are simply scholarly epitomes 
 of all that has been said by previous writers on subjects no 
 one cares anything about. There is no boy who has just 
 left college who could not do what you do ; you write things 
 that all scholars know as well as you, whilst as for the 
 rest of your readers, you either bore or confuse them. 
 Your writings, man cher, are the apotheosis of the common- 
 ' place." 
 
 " It seems to me that what you want me to write is simply 
 bald commonplace." 
 
 " Not at all. I don't see why you must necessarily jump 
 from one extreme to the other. In doing that you admit 
 that you have neither ability to originate nor industry to 
 supply a demand." 
 
 " There you go again ! You always stand up for the 
 purely meretricious." 
 
 "My dear boy, up to a certain point everything is mere- 
 tricious. Why do you suppose I sold my first pictures ? 
 Gabriel Hawleiglvs early work was infinitely superior to 
 mine, but mine sold, and his did not. Why ? Because I 
 am a beautiful woman, and painted my own portrait indi- 
 rectly into everything, and with that, I painted subjects 
 which were described as ' daring ' by unsuccessful artists 
 disguised as critics. In this way, an interest entirely apart 
 from the work sold my prentice efforts. What you have to 
 do is to prove yourself personally superior as you undoubt- 
 edly are to mere acquirements/' 
 
 " In a phrase, you would have me write down to the mor- 
 bid craving for sensation that characterizes the literary taste 
 of to-day." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Genius is universal, and requires no die-
 
 IO6 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 tionary of its own. I tell you to forsake the display of 
 erudition, and cultivate imagination. If I hadn't wit enough 
 to give the public what it wants, and to give it art as well, I 
 should be admitting that I am like every unsuccessful strug- 
 gler who gives them pure talent which is a drug in the 
 market. If I could write I would make a success, for the 
 reason that I should conceal art so well that those who can- 
 not appreciate it would not find it. A fine lady can wear 
 gingham and homespun, and be called 'chic'; but Clyde 
 couldn't wear my terra-cotta wrapper. Apply this to your 
 erudition. Gild your pill, tres cher ; gild your pill ! " 
 
 " Daphne, are you quite sure that you know that you 
 understand what you are talking about ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I am absolutely sensible of my own ignorance, but 
 I live in this nineteenth century of ours, and I desire to 
 live comfortably luxuriously and to be ' somebody ' into the 
 bargain. My plane is immeasurably below yours, but whilst 
 you cannot look down on me though you are over my head 
 I can look up to you and appreciate you. I live on earth, 
 you live in the clouds, and your work is no use there. 
 You haven't yet reached Heaven, so you can't be sure that 
 your works would sell there ; and with the present moral 
 obliquity that exists with regard to international copyright, 
 though you might be celebrated, you would probably reap 
 no advantage from your celebrity beyond a pair of first-qual- 
 ity wings and a more than ordinarily curly trumpet." 
 
 He turned away almost petulantly. 
 
 " What have I done," said he, " that you should talk to 
 me like this ? I'm a fool a sensitive fool I know; but, 
 by Jupiter, you know exactly where to hit, and you hit 
 hard." 
 
 " What have you done ? What have you done ? You have 
 made me love you, darling , that's all." And she went to 
 him, putting her arms about his neck, and pressing him 
 closer, closer to her heart, until her head sank upon his 
 shoulder, and her voice died away to a whisper in his ear, 
 that she caressed softly with her lips.
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. IOJ 
 
 Eric was deeply obstinately wounded, and he held her 
 in a loose, distracted embrace. He was thinking so much 
 of himself and of his own woes, and it hurt him beyond 
 bearing that she did not worship him blindly uncritically. 
 
 " Suppose," she went on, " you were not rich enough to 
 be independent of your work. Would it be right to throw 
 away the talent you have, on work that is gratifying only to 
 yourself ? Be sure, your want of success lies in yourself, 
 not in other people. The cant phrase, 'writing above the 
 heads of the herd,' is all rubbish. Fame is the justification 
 of Talent ; strive after it, buy it at any cost. Oh, I know 
 the difference between Fame and Notoriety, and how much 
 easier it is to gain the latter than the former. But to be 
 heard, to be listened to, is the first consideration ; make 
 your crowd listen to you, and when you have got them in 
 your grasp, give them what you like ; but spare no means, 
 however false they may seem to you, to get them there." 
 
 " But, sweetheart, you are arguing that Art should acqui- 
 esce in its own suppression." 
 
 " No I argue that art should give you the superior force 
 to conquer your tendency to sacrifice everything to it. 
 Don't think I am cruel when I hurt you like this I am so 
 proud of you, and of your talents. Oh, love, I must see 
 you rise above your disappointments. You are satisfied to 
 know your own worth ; /shall never be satisfied until the 
 world acknowledges k. Forgive me, sweetheart, if I seem 
 sordid and mercenary for your sake." 
 
 Though Eric adored Daphne, there was always this grain 
 of worldly wisdom in her that jarred upon him ; it was 
 indefinable, but intense. But while it was repugnant to him, 
 he was too reasonable not to acknowledge that in much of 
 it she was right. It was almost humiliating to realize that 
 this woman, who was only educated up to the ordinary fem- 
 inine standpoint, could sound blindly, unthinkingly with a 
 rush, as it were the depths of human nature, whilst he, with 
 all his scientific and classic lore, took ten times as long to 
 arrive anywhere near the same point. It came out strongly
 
 108 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 in her pictures. With all her profound artistic talent, she 
 knew how to leaven the excellence of her work with a some- 
 thing that arrested the eye, with details of human nature 
 which, though admirably executed, he still felt to be essen- 
 tially meretricious. The word was his nightmare ; it was her 
 bank-account. 
 
 It was irritating to him to argue with this woman, who, 
 like all self-supporting workers, had a confidence in her own 
 efforts which, being based on practical experience, was 
 unanswerable. He was forced to admit that her instinct was 
 unerring, and that, in spite of her sordid expressions, she was 
 inherently artistic ; she could produce with a touch effects 
 that, in others, demanded hours of labor. And above all, 
 she worshipped him, and he knew it ; he was her god, and 
 though she strove often to hide the fact, she was mentally on 
 her knees before him, adoring him wildly, and more appre- 
 ciatively than any milk-and-water maiden who might have 
 flattered him more by listening to and memorizing his incom- 
 prehensible poems, effusions which he loved to garb in the 
 jargon of the unintelligible. She was of that type of woman 
 who makes a man what he is. For what ? That he may 
 straightway go from her to fling himself at the feet of some 
 pretty specimen of puerile femininity, and in the enjoyment 
 of its inane worship, wonder how he could so long have 
 endured the rather trying criticisms of a woman whose fibre, 
 though passionate and maddening, " was somewhat coarse of 
 a woman not fit to enter the same room with his Colinette 
 his Colinette, so pure, so holy, so " bah ! etcetera ! etcet- 
 era ! etcetera ! 
 
 'Tis a weird world, my masters ! 
 
 But Eric had not yet found his Colinette. He was enthralled 
 by a personality stronger by far than his own, in all save 
 that she adored him ; he was content to live with only one 
 thought in his mind Daphne ! Daphne ! and had anyone 
 told him that the time might come when he would tire of the 
 electric light, and seek the comparative gloom of the unex- 
 hausting ozokerit, he would have regarded the prophet with
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. \ 09 
 
 a contemptuous wonder, and would have returned to the daz- 
 zling fascinations of the gorgeous Creole with something like 
 pity in his heart for the inexperienced philosopher " who had 
 evidently never loved" 
 
 Certainly nothing of this could have been foreshadowed 
 by anyone who saw Eric Trevanion take Daphne in his 
 arms, at the end of the conversation I have recorded above, 
 and lose consciousness of the whole world in the thought that 
 this matchless woman was his, and his alone ; and as usual, 
 they parted happier than ever in their fool's paradise of 
 varied sensations. It is probable that a man of Trevanion's 
 character would never have been chained as he was, if the 
 course of his love had run perfectly smooth ; and it was per- 
 haps Daphne's art of criticising and correcting him that 
 made her tenderness so infinitely more precious to him than 
 it would otherwise have been. An American writer Edgar 
 Saltus has said very justly, " The secret of never displeas- 
 ing is the art of mediocrity ; " and certainly one might wan- 
 der for a lifetime amid the labyrinth of attribute before 
 selecting for Daphne Preault the adjective " mediocre." She 
 was grand, intoxicating, sublime, and infinitely soft ; but 
 never " affectionate." The word " affectionate " is too fre- 
 quently a synonym an euphemism for " indifferent " ; and 
 Eric was Daphne's very soul, her only thought, her unique 
 religion. And he left her to-day to go to some dinner-party 
 or other, more bound to him, soul to soul, forever ; for the 
 instinct of maternity that unconsciously mingles itself with 
 love in every woman's heart told her that this man was des- 
 tined to be nay, already was a thing of her own creation. 
 After dinner she went to his writing-table and spent a couple 
 of hours with his impractical, high-flown manuscripts. He 
 was a Quixote of literature ; his essays were gems ; not the 
 diamonds, the rubies, the sapphires eagerly bought by the 
 public who understand such things, but the cameos, the 
 avanturines, the labradorites, and chrysoberyls of language, 
 infinitely dearer than diamonds to the collector and connois- 
 seur, but in no wise understood or appreciated by the people.
 
 I IO THE PRINCESS DAPHNE 
 
 Whilst she was thus occupied, a thought struck her : she 
 was reading an essay of his on the social customs of the 
 Mayas of Yucatan, as contrasted with those of the people of 
 Atlantis ; an ingenious dissertation in which two people per- 
 haps in the whole world Dr. Le Plongeon and Ignatius 
 Donnelly would have revelled. She took up Eric's pen 
 and rewrote the entire thing, discarding nothing of his, 
 but adding a quantity of her own, until she had practically 
 produced an essay on the Aztecs of the Parisian Boulevards 
 and the Regent Street and the Piccadilly of the capital of 
 Atlantis ; and in its new and almost sacrilegious form, she 
 posted it to the editor of the leading monthly magazine 
 of the English-speaking world. This done, the Princess 
 Daphne, though as yet it was early, went to bed. 
 
 Daphne Preault was a physically perfect woman. She had 
 read of heroines of novels who took chloral, and she knew 
 weak-minded women whose prayers for rest, on going to bed, 
 took the practical form of bromide of potassium. To the 
 Princess these things were the romance of the Pharmaco- 
 poeia. Having wrapped her exquisite body in the clinging 
 silks of her night attire, she was in the habit of falling asleep 
 almost the instant that her head touched the pillow ; and with 
 the regularity of clock-work, precisely eight hours afterward, 
 she made one bound from her hardly tumbled bed-clothes in- 
 to her bath. Thus, at something before six o'clock on the fol- 
 lowing morning, the Princess surprised Clytie by stepping 
 into the studio, where the spring-morning rays had just 
 acquired sufficient strength to be properly called the light of 
 day. 
 
 Swathed in her loose morning-wrapper, she was carefully 
 cleaning and polishing her palette, when suddenly a strange, 
 faint sensation seemed to travel all over her, and a strong 
 shudder shook her from head to foot. She grasped her 
 easel to prevent herself from falling ; everything seemed 
 black around her, and when the momentary mist had cleared 
 away, everything seemed changed. 
 
 Was it herself or the studio ? She touched her hair, and
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. \ \ \ 
 
 it seemed as if she were touching the hair of another woman : 
 in an agony of terror, as if to identify herself, she staggered 
 to the looking-glass ; yes there she was the same hot 
 black hair and Southern eyes ; but something seemed altered ; 
 another soul seemed reflected from the eyes in the mirror, 
 and, looking round, the very furniture seemed unfamiliar, 
 though she recognized it all. Good God ! was she going 
 mad ? Was she still herself ? She even went to her writing- 
 table and took up some of the letters that lay thereon. She 
 read, half-aloud, her name and address on one of them, and 
 oh horrible ! it seemed, in some weird way, strange to 
 her. Then her eyes fell on Eric's table, just as she had left 
 it the night before, and in her agony she cried aloud, 
 '* Eric ! Eric ! " 
 
 " Eric ! " 
 
 Clytie, hearing the cry, rushed in, to find her mistress 
 lying in a dead faint on the floor of the studio. 
 
 It was one o'clock in the morning in New York, and at 
 that instant of time, Paul du Peyral roused Mahmoure di 
 Zulueta from her mesmeric trance. 
 
 " Sho, honey ! Sho, there ! What is it, chile ? Tell yo' 
 Clytie what de mattah. You moughty po'ly, fo' shuah ; yu's 
 up too early, my pretty " such were the words of her darkie 
 nurse that rang in her ears as she recovered consciousness, 
 to find the faithful old woman rocking herself to and fro 
 over her prostrate body, and muttering incoherent prayers 
 to her jade idol for her mistress' recovery. 
 
 " Be quiet, Clytie," said she ; " I'm quite well, only I've 
 been frightened. I ought to have eaten something before I 
 got to work. Get it me quickly ; and mind ! don't speak of 
 this to Mr. Trevanion." 
 
 " Sho' 'nuff," replied she. 
 
 There was little fear of her volunteering her conversation 
 to Eric, whom she in some way connected she knew not 
 how with this unprecedented state of her mistress' nerves. 
 And Daphne sat down before the fire, unable for some mys- 
 terious reason to rid her mind of thoughts of her early life,
 
 1 1 2 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 of Baton Rouge, and of the would-be husband she had never 
 seen Paul du Peyral. 
 
 By ten o'clock, when Eric arrived, she was herself again, 
 calmly at work, the obsession of her mind having departed 
 as quickly and mysteriously as it had supervened. She had, 
 as a precautionary measure, sent for her doctor as soon as 
 it was fair to rouse him to his day's work, and he had com- 
 pletely restored her equanimity. There was no doubt about 
 it he was reassuringly positive, as doctors always are on 
 points they know absolutely nothing about she was quite 
 obviously suffering, said he, from a touch of indigestion. 
 She had eaten something he could not say what that 
 had not agreed with her ! 
 
 That was all. 
 
 " By-the-by, Eric," said she, after he had been there some 
 time, " I was reading over some of your stuff last night, so 
 as to secure a good night's rest, and I found that article of 
 yours on Yucatan and Atlantis. I liked it better than ever, 
 and have sent it to the editor of Smith's Monthly. Do you 
 mind ? " 
 
 " Not at all ; it is a mere matter of form he's had it once, 
 and we shall have it back again. I .might have saved you 
 the trouble of sending it ; but it really doesn't matter, sweet- 
 heart. What a good child you are ! You're always thinking 
 of me." 
 
 "Oh, it's not that but I will make, these editors appreci- 
 ate you." 
 
 He came over and kissed her, and went back to his work 
 feeling that the whole world was nothing to him so long as 
 he kept the love of this wonderful woman. Still, was it not 
 strange that she should have suddenly warmed to an appreci- 
 ation of that article of his ? for he remembered her laugh- 
 ing it to scorn when first he read it to her ; but perhaps she 
 was at last acquiring a taste for his work, and he regarded 
 it as a good omen. 
 
 Of the curious obsession of her mind that morning neither 
 the Princess nor Clytie whispered a word, and it is probable
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. 1 1 3 
 
 that, had it never been repeated, he would never have heard 
 anything about it at all ; but to Daphne's bewilderment and 
 Clytie's alarm, the symptoms recurred at intervals, generally 
 late at night, and sometimes with such strength that it was 
 hours before Daphne became quite herself again. After 
 such attacks Eric would find her altered in some strange, 
 indefinable way ; her manner was hardened, her ideas were 
 more independent and brusque, her whole personality was 
 coarser, as it were, but at the same time touched over with a 
 more languorous sense of luxury, a carelessness that was at 
 the same time more subtle but more pronounced. They had 
 almost ceased to alarm her, for the doctor before mentioned, 
 having been once more consulted, had confirmed his pre- 
 vious opinion on the case : It was impossible to say exactly 
 what the disturbing influence was probably the home-sick 
 fruit of the Kensington green-grocer ; the effect, beyond all 
 doubt, was a certain congestion of the blood-vessels of the 
 cerebellum produced by a disordered state of the stomach. 
 There was nothing to fear in any way. Seven-and-six for 
 the visit during which he acquired artistic dinner-party con- 
 versation for a week and two of these pills after every 
 attack too late to prevent the attack true ! but quite sure 
 to prevent its recurrence for a time, at least. Er thank 
 you ! 
 
 It was one afternoon, about three weeks after her first 
 seizure, that Eric suggested suddenly : 
 
 " Daphne, do you remember that night we went to the 
 Parthenon together ? " 
 
 " Do I remember it ? Cher ami, do you think I shall ever 
 forget it ? " 
 
 " Let's go there to-night and see the new piece for ' auld 
 lang syne,' as it were." 
 
 " Certainly, boy ; will you dine here, or shall I dine with 
 you ? " 
 
 " Oh, come down to the Bristol with me, and then we shall 
 not have to hurry so." 
 
 And so it was arranged, and six o'clock saw them flying
 
 1 14 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 down Piccadilly again, as on the night when they gave up 
 the world for one another. 
 
 They were supremely happy, and they showed it. A 
 brighter spark appeared to gleam in Daphne's eyes as she 
 sat by Eric's side ; whilst, for his part, a sensation of utter 
 and absolute contentment seemed to pervade his whole being. 
 He hardly noticed the play, and was only conscious of a 
 lover-like regret that the fall of the curtain chased them once 
 more into the open air. Arrived once more in Holland 
 Street, he was following Daphne into the studio, when sud- 
 denly she sprang back, exclaiming, 
 
 " Eric ! there's somebody there." 
 
 " What ! " he cried, and strode past her into the studio. 
 
 The fire-light threw shadow-shapes, gaunt and monstrous, 
 upon the walls ; the imprisoned air seemed heavy with the 
 sensuous perfume of the Princess Daphne's personality ; but 
 that was all. 
 
 " Bah ! " said he, as he struck a match on the sole of his 
 shoe, and lit the gas, " there's no one here. Tell you what 
 it is, Daph ; you're getting nervous, and I don't like it. Let 
 me give you something strong ; what shall it be ? " 
 
 She did not answer, and he looked round. Something in 
 her look arrested him as he stepped towards her. She had 
 curled herself up as it were on the hearth-rug among the 
 pillows that had fallen from the lounge, a position, pictur- 
 esque, passionate, beautiful, but not hers. A strange, yearn- 
 ing look was in her eyes, her half-parted lips wore a feverish 
 crimson, and, revealed by the cut of her corsage, he saw her 
 bosom heave as if she suffocated under some strange excite- 
 ment. It was Daphne, and yet not Daphne ; the figure that 
 lay before him was too soft, too sinuous ; the position was 
 too undignified, too wild if such an expression may be ap- 
 plied to a posture for the calm, cool Princess. He flung 
 himself on his knees by her side, exclaiming, 
 
 " Daphne, my darling, what is it ? " 
 
 For answer she gathered his head in her long white arms, 
 and drew it down to hers, crushing him in an embrace that
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. 1 1 5 
 
 was almost suffocating, till he could feel the tumultuous 
 beating of her heart as she whispered : 
 
 "Oh, Paul, Paul, my darling ! " 
 
 " Paul ! " he exclaimed, as he started from her. " Who's 
 that ? " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " You said ' Paul.' What do you mean ? Come, child, 
 get up, and be sensible." 
 
 " Sensible ! What do you mean ? Aren't you Paul ? Oh, 
 no ; you're Eric. And yet I seem to know a man named 
 Paul. Isn't it you ? No. Ah ! but what does it matter ? 
 Oh, don't look at me like that, dear ; put your arms round 
 me, to tell me you are here. Oh ! Eric, if you knew how I 
 love you ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes. But what is the matter with you ? You look 
 you act so strangely." 
 
 " Well, never mind kiss me ! " 
 
 " No, you are not yourself ; let me get you something. 
 
 " Oh, don't trouble yourself," said she, rising suddenly 
 and flinging herself into a chair. " No I'm not myself I 
 don't care it pleases me to be someone else for the time. 
 What does it matter ? You are not Eric, as far as I can 
 make out everything seems topsy-turvy so much the bet- 
 ter ; it makes a change. Come ! " 
 
 He stood still, a few paces from her, as if terror-stricken 
 spell-bound. Was this his grand, graceful Daphne, whose 
 calmness had so often chilled the flame of his love when it 
 blazed highest ? Was this the woman who, in the pure de- 
 votion of herself to him, had become his, to the nethermost 
 thought of her soul ? Good God ! the woman who looked at 
 him from the arm-chair through Daphne's eyes was almost 
 coarse almost animal in her expression. He turned away 
 and looked into the fire, as if to find there the explanation 
 of the transformation that had taken place before his very 
 eyes. She nudged him with her slippered foot. 
 
 " Don't you want to kiss me, darling ? "
 
 1 1 6 THE PRINCESS DAP1IXE. 
 
 " Oh, hush, hush ! " he murmured, taking a few steps away 
 from her. She sprang to her feet. 
 
 " My God ! what a fool I am to love you so ! I ought to 
 be a sickly, sentimental school-girl, ready to weep with you, 
 laugh with you, dance with you, and sigh all day at your 
 lightest frown. But I'm not. What I am, I am ; if you 
 don't like it you needn't take it ; there are a hundred men 
 as good as you within as many yards. I must have been 
 mad when I made up my mind that you were the only man 
 in the world. Ah ! but the difference between you and 
 Paul ! " 
 
 That name again ! He turned sharply upon her, just in 
 time to see her sway to and fro for an instant, and then to 
 catch her as she fell into his arms. 
 
 He laid her on the lounge. Hardly had he done so, 
 when, with a choking sigh, she opened her eyes, and seeing 
 him bending over her, she said, with a half-frightened look, 
 as she saw the hard, cold pain in his eyes, 
 
 " Eric, my darling, what is it ? " 
 
 " You ask /<?what is it. Good heavens ! that's what I ask 
 you ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ? Oh, Eric, I feel so strange ; just 
 as if I'd had one of those stupid fainting fits of mine. What 
 has happened ? " 
 
 " Upon my life, I don't know. You seem to have been 
 possessed for the last twenty minutes. Who is ' Paul' ? " 
 
 " Paul ? " 
 
 " Yes, Paul. You have been talking raving about him, 
 and saying the most awful things to me." 
 
 " To you ? oh, my love ! " Then, after a pause, she cov- 
 ered her face with her hands, and said, in a broken whisper, 
 " My God ! am I going mad ? " 
 
 Eric made no answer. 
 
 " I feel," continued she, " as if I had been somebody else, 
 somewhere else, and I thought that you were that horrible 
 man who is in America Paul du Peyral. Oh, Eric, what
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. I 1 7 
 
 does it mean ? I can't bear it ; " and for the first time since 
 he had known her, she burst into tears. 
 
 He knelt by her side and put his arms round her, torn 
 hither and thither by a weird feeling of violent attraction 
 and equally violent repulsion. What was the mystery at 
 taching to this incomprehensible woman ? 
 
 Little by little she became quieter, calmer herself again ; 
 and when he left her, there was no trace remaining of the 
 manner that had horrified him so, no recollection of the in- 
 cident which, on his mind at least, had left an impression of 
 uneasiness, if not of positive alarm. He slept but little that 
 night, but determined to learn, without delay, all that he 
 could of this Paul du Peyral, who seemed to cross his path 
 continually, and who seemed to be in some mysterious way 
 entangled in the skein of his existence, and of that of the 
 Princess Daphne. 
 
 His opportunity came sooner than he expected it. A 
 couple of days later the Eastons gave a tea-party to the col- 
 ony, and as their studio was smaller and less picturesque 
 than his, he placed the latter at their disposal, and found 
 himself to a certain extent in the position of host with 
 regard to their guests. If it had not been for this, he would 
 probably have hardly noticed the good-looking vulgarian 
 who was presented to him by Sylvia Easton as " Mr. Charles 
 Sturton-Baker " the name in full. Mr. Baker had pro- 
 moted himself from the obscurity of Belsize, N. W., to the 
 dignity of a hyphenated name, and of a manner which he 
 fancied was more suited to the punctuation. Miss Easton, 
 not quite sqre of her suburban Adonis when transplanted 
 into Holland Street, exploded a mine in her good-natured 
 endeavour to supply him with a cloak for his personality, by 
 saying sweetly as she presented him, 
 
 " Mr. Baker er Mr. Sturton-Baker has just returned tri- 
 umphant from the conquest of social New York." 
 
 " This may be my man," thought Eric, as he shook Mr. 
 Baker's hand, and invited him to Ipok at his sherry and bric- 
 a-brac with him.
 
 1 1 8 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " So you have been in America, Mr. Baker," said he, by 
 way of opening the conversation ; " how did it impress you ? " 
 
 " Don't you know that thousands of Americans lose their 
 lives yearly by asking that question of foreigners ? " 
 
 " Indeed ! why how ? " 
 
 " Because it is the question that one is asked from the 
 moment one lands till the moment one re-embarks, and after 
 a few days, killing the man who asks it of you becomes 
 merely justifiable homicide." 
 
 " Indeed ! I wasn't aware that I was either transgressing 
 the laws or courting danger when I asked the question. 
 But seriously, it must be a very interesting country. I have 
 always heard that its social institutions are quite unique." 
 
 " Well, in what way ? " 
 
 " Why, that all classes of society are mixed up together in- 
 extricably, and you never know whether you have a million- 
 aire driving your horse-car, or a car-driver receiving you in a 
 millionaire's mansion." 
 
 " That is to a certain extent true. I "have met in my 
 American travels car-drivers and bar-tenders whom I should 
 be proud to call my friends, and millionaires and social 
 magnates whom I should be sorry to have black my boots. 
 Excellent sherry this, Mr. Trevanion ! " 
 
 " Er yes. Have some more. I suppose no one ever 
 inquires into his friend's antecedents in the land of the brave 
 and the home of the free." 
 
 " Oh, no. A sort of Fifth-Avenue oblige keeps them quiet 
 on questions of paternity and grand-paternity. It is only 
 the members of the haut Knickerbocker regime who discuss 
 their pedigrees ; and the descendant of a Dutch adventurer 
 thinks he confers a great honour when he marries the millions 
 of some commercial magnate. The funny part of it all is, 
 that when said descendant of said Dutch rapscallion wants 
 to be particularly insulting to the working-bee in the hive, he 
 describes the latter contemptuously as ' a Dutchman. 1 " 
 
 " And did you come asross the Creole element of society 
 at all ? "
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. I 19 
 
 " Hardly at all. Few Creoles inhabit the North and 
 East, and when they do, one seldom knows them to be such. 
 Now and then one meets a handsome, stormy-looking man 
 or woman, and hears that it is a Creole that is all." 
 
 " I wonder if you ever came across a Mr. Paul du Pey- 
 ral ? " 
 
 The vulgar face became convulsed by an expression that 
 was half astonishment and half leer, as he replied : 
 
 " Why, yes I have come across him ; what of him ? " 
 
 " I know nothing of him, but I should like to." 
 
 " Mr. Trevanion, if I read your expression right your 
 feelings toward du Peyral are hardly friendly." 
 
 " Well, no ; he keeps a dear friend of mine out of a very 
 large fortune, and seems, in more ways than one, to lie 
 across my path though I have never seen him. You know, 
 it happens so sometimes." 
 
 " Then I have the advantage of you, for I have stayed in 
 a country-house with him, and can only say that he was per- 
 sonally very offensive to me." 
 
 " Ah ! a gentleman, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Well, yes I suppose so," replied Baker, on whom the 
 gentle sarcasm was completely lost. " He's one of those 
 affected, half-mystic people who think the world of them- 
 selves here, and will want frills on their halos hereafter." 
 
 " You evidently don't like him, Mr. Baker have some 
 more sherry." 
 
 " Thanks ! No, I don't ; in fact, between you and me, 
 old man, he did his best and failed to spoil a very pretty 
 little game of mine over there. There is a little girl in New 
 York who thinks herself a second Madame Recamier, but 
 isn't, and who is madly in love with me all New York 
 rings with it. Now, as she has millions of her own, I have 
 gone in for them, and in a few months you'll see me making 
 her American dollars fly right merrily. Now this du Peyral 
 wanted her for himself, so he abused me to her like mad, 
 and then had to take it all back, as they say over there. 
 Naturally, I should like to get even with him."
 
 I2Q THE PRINCESS -DAPHNE. 
 
 " He wants to marry this girl, you say ? " 
 
 " Well, he wants to marry her money ; I don't fancy he is 
 rich himself. Unfortunately, there is an obstacle, I under- 
 stand some liaison he has formed over there." 
 
 " A liaison ? " 
 
 " Yes see here I only heard about it by this morning's 
 mail here's my little girl's letter." 
 
 " But, my dear sir, I don't want to read your love 
 letters ! " 
 
 " Oh, that's all right ; go on. Women shouldn't make 
 fools of themselves if they don't want it known. However, 
 if you don't care to know what you ask about, you needn't 
 read it, that's all." 
 
 Eric, seeing that the man was in earnest, took the letter, 
 and read as follows : 
 
 " My own sweet darling, etc., etc., Charlie ! You know 
 that your little girl is unhappy, for when you are away, etc., 
 etc. When you come back and you will come back, won't 
 you, Charlie ? etc., etc., etc. I shall have such lots to tell 
 you that you won't want to hear, etc., etc., etc., naughty 
 boy ! etc., etc., etc., darling ! etc., etc., etc., married*, etc., 
 etc., etc. And I am your own etc., etc., etc., Parthenia, 
 P. S. I had almost forgotten what I wanted to tell you, 
 darling. The other day that loathsome man, du Peyral, 
 called like his impertinence ! and, oh ! my darling, etc., 
 etc., etc., he said the most dreadful things about you. Of 
 course I didn't believe him, because I know in my etc., etc., 
 etc., that you are etc., etc., etc., and I thought no more 
 about it ; but he wrote to a gentleman in England named 
 Gabriel Hawleigh, whom I should like to etc., etc., etc., who 
 wrote back the truth about you, which was lovely. And du 
 Peyral was so dreadfully frightened of what you would do to 
 him that he gave me the letter to read, with a perfectly grov- 
 elling apology for having slandered you. I hope that, when 
 you come over again, you will etc., etc., etc. The idea of his 
 daring to call at a decent house, when everyone knows that 
 he is somehow connected with that dreadful woman,
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. 1 2 I 
 
 Mahmoure di Zulueta, who you know was etc., etc., etc., 
 and is etc., etc., etc." And then, with renewed expressions 
 of admiration, of the domestic servant order, the postscript 
 closed. 
 
 " What do you think of that for a letter from a girl with 
 five millions, my boy, eh ? " remarked Mr. Baker, as Eric 
 returned him the communication, with an expression of 
 supreme disgust on his face. 
 
 " Well, it is hardly a letter that I should think your 
 million-heiress wants hawked round to flatter your vanity ; 
 but you certainly seem to have cause to dislike Mr. Paul du 
 Peyral. What are you going to do about it ? " 
 
 " Ah ! that's it. First of all I am going to find out all I 
 can about him and the Zulueta through Murray Hill, an 
 American friend of mine, and then I shall marry my little 
 gold-fish." 
 
 " Je vous souhaite de la chance !" 
 
 " Eh ? " 
 
 " Good luck to you ! " 
 
 "Oh! certainly, thanks great heavens! who is that 
 woman who has just come into the room ? What a clipping 
 gal!" 
 
 " That is Miss Daphne Prdault," said Eric, very stiffly. 
 
 " Well, she's A i, ain't she ? Do you know her ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I say introduce her to me, will you ? " 
 
 " I will present you to her, if she cares about it. I'll ask 
 her, if you like." 
 
 ' All right, old man ; go on. And, I say, do you know 
 it's a queer coincidence she's the living image of that man 
 we've been talking about Paul du Peyral ! " 
 
 ******* 
 
 " My goodness, Eric," said the Princess, as they entered 
 her studio together an hour later, " why on earth did you 
 introduce that horrid- little cad Baker to me? I believe he 
 was half tipsy." 
 
 " He was all you say he is, chere amie, but I owed him
 
 1 22 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 some favour, and that was the one he claimed. He had been 
 giving me very useful information about the man who I 
 believe is what the Germans call your doppelganger Paul du 
 Peyral. He hates him, and if there is anything wrong with 
 Monsieur Paul, he'll find it out through an idiotic but love- 
 lorn American heiress, who is negotiating the purchase of 
 Mr. Baker for her very own, and will, in this manner, save us 
 a good deal of trouble and expense. I've asked him to come 
 and report progress to me. // faut souffrir, you know, 
 pouretrc au courant I One must suffer, to be well-informed." 
 
 " Well, it is a devotion on your part which I highly appre- 
 ciate ; " and the conversation drifted on to other subjects. 
 
 It was about half-past nine that evening that Eric and 
 Daphne were sitting before the fire, playing tiarte, when 
 Gabriel sprang into the studio suddenly, pale and out of 
 breath. 
 
 " I am going to be hung," he cried, sinking into a chair. 
 
 " Good God ! Whom have you killed ? " exclaimed Eric. 
 
 " My picture, I mean see ! " and he produced the notice 
 from the authorities at Burlington House, which told him 
 that its hospitable portals would be thrown open to him on 
 Varnishing day, at the Private View and at the Academy 
 Soiree. 
 
 A season of genuine congratulation ensued, which became 
 general a few moments later, when the postman arrived bear- 
 ing similar intelligence for the Princess Daphne ; and as 
 Gabriel rose to leave, having been warmly felicitated by 
 Eric, the Princess took both his hands in hers, and leaning 
 over, kissed his forehead, saying, 
 
 " Gabriel, dear friend of ours, I am proud to be the first 
 to salute you on your accession to greatness. A new era 
 has opened for you and for Maye. May it be eternal, and 
 may we all live long to congratulate ourselves on being the 
 intimate friends of one of the greatest artists of his day." 
 
 It was with a tear in each eye that Gabriel rushed from 
 the studio to go on spreading his good news. As he did so, 
 the door slammed violently behind him, and a little mirror
 
 DAPHNE AND ERIC. 123 
 
 that hung by its side fell with a crash, and was shattered 
 into fragments. 
 
 " Absit omen ! " ejaculated Eric. And he rang for Clytem- 
 nestra.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AN ANGLOMANIAC. 
 
 IN a delicately-furnished male apartment in the hotel 
 which he had come fondly to imagine had been named after 
 himself, sat Mr. Murray Hill, an American gentleman of 
 Spanish appearance and French manners, the aim and 
 object of whose existence was to be taken for an English' 
 man. With this purpose in view he clothed his symmetrical 
 form entirely in British clothes, was virulent in his abuse of 
 all things American, turned up his trousers in New York 
 when the weather reports announced rain in London, spoke 
 with an amazing drawl, stuck an eye-glass of a perfectly 
 innocuous and supererogatory description in his dexter optic, 
 affected with enthusiasm the society of wandering English- 
 men, and was consequently a centre of adulation and imita- 
 tion in the sacred precincts of the Pantaloon Club, within 
 whose exclusive portals the gilded youth of Manhattan origin 
 strove to hide their honourable Dutch ancestry beneath a 
 varnish of acute anglomania. 
 
 From the above description the casual reader might be 
 inclined to write Mr. Murray Hill down an ass, but the cas- 
 ual reader would be vastly mistaken. A better fellow never 
 showed himself at Delmonico's than Mr. Murray Hill ; a gen- 
 tleman in every modern sense of the word, the shady mem- 
 bers of the English snobocracy who yearly came to New 
 York for the winter, and who ought to have been proud of 
 his friendship, were seldom fit to be spoken of in the same 
 breath with him ; and by those who understood him at his 
 proper value, his little transatlantic idiosyncrasies were read 
 ily forgiven, on the principle of " Nullum magnum ingenium 
 
 124
 
 AN ANGL OMA NIA C. 125 
 
 sine mixturd dementia!" a great genius is always a trifle 
 mad ! 
 
 It was unfortunate, however, that his knowledge of Great 
 Britain was not of a kind complete enough to show him 
 what should have been apparent to the merest observer, viz., 
 that Charles Sturton Baker was a cad in the most practical 
 and onomatopoetic sense of the term, for, meeting that per- 
 son one day at the Sunday menagerie of the Van Baulk'ems, 
 he was led away by his somewhat aggressive personality, 
 and nearly succeeded in launching him in the best society 
 of the modern Gotham. After Baker's return to the land 
 of his obscure birth, he kept up a correspondence with Mr. 
 Murray Hill for his own selfish purposes, a correspondence 
 which he garnished freely with extracts from Truth, The 
 World, and Vanity Fair, on the culinary principle of "fla- 
 vour to taste, and serve quickly on clean paper." 
 
 It was with a lazy tremor of joyful anticipation therefore, 
 that, on the morning of which I speak, Mr. Murray Hill 
 took up the envelope that lay beside his chocolate, and whose 
 postmark, " London," was in no sense for him quali- 
 fied by the letters " N. W." that bespoke its evangelhurst 
 origin ; and, breaking the seal, he commenced, with much 
 appreciation, the string of second-hand and original (though 
 imaginary) gossip of the back-stairs and of cheap society 
 journalism. That H. R. H. should have worn in his button- 
 hole at " The Private View " the entire spike of a double 
 hyacinth bloom was, to say the least of it, thrilling ; but it 
 paled into insignificance before the intelligence that a Royal 
 Duke had expressed to Mr. Baker, on the steps of the 
 Marlborough Club, the opinion that, if that sanctuary were 
 conducted more on the lines of the Pantaloon Club in New 
 York, his Brother (with a capital B) would have nothing left 
 to wish for in the world. It was therefore with a new thrill 
 of pleasure that he received Mr. Baker's commission, which 
 was couched in the following terms : 
 
 " A few days ago I was talking about you to my bosom 
 friend, Lord Trevanion, and he said to me, ' I wonder
 
 126 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 whether Mr. Murray Hill could find out for me anything 
 about a man named Paul du Peyral, who lives in New York. 
 He is, I believe, an adventurer of the deepest dye, and 
 should he by any chance be married quietly, it would be a 
 scrap of intelligence that would entitle its author to sincere 
 gratitude in High Quarters? " [Capital H. Q., and under- 
 lined.] 
 
 Now, Mr. Murray Hill had traversed the world from China 
 to Peru proceeding in a westerly direction, of course and 
 consequently Paul du Peyral was not only well known to 
 him, but was also, in the lucid intervals when he was free 
 from anglomania, an object of intelligent admiration to 
 him. But the mania was strong upon him this morning, 
 and he determined, in a social but drastic manner, to 
 enquire into that gentleman's " record," and report accord- 
 ingly. Mere personal admiration must not be allowed to 
 interfere with patriotic esprit de corps, and, posted as he was 
 in matters transatlantic, Mr. Murray Hill had almost come 
 to look upon himself as an Englishman ! 
 
 His toilet carefully completed, therefore, he sallied forth 
 that, though hackneyed, is the only expression that ever 
 conveys adequately to my mind the progress of the Ameri- 
 can dandy down Fifth Avenue to the Pantaloon Club, in 
 the classic gloom of whose reading-room he found a selec- 
 tion of the gray-headed youth the jcunesse argente'e of 
 New York, and of him who seemed to him the best, or 
 rather, the most promiscuously, informed, he inquired for 
 data concerning that traveller-mystic, Paul du Peyral. The 
 answer was prompt and precise. 
 
 " Du Peyral? Oh, yes. A queer chap, but interesting in 
 his way. He was at Mrs. Lexington Park's last night, and 
 he and Eugene Stiggins had rather an interesting discussion 
 on mesmerism. You know, Eugene is awfully good at it, 
 but he confessed himself nowhere in the presence of du 
 Peyral. Why, there was a woman there who humbugged 
 him about it, and said she did not believe in it, and our 
 mystic just looked at her for a minute and then said, ' You
 
 AN ANGLOMANIAS I2/ 
 
 can't stir an inch, hand or foot ; ' and, by gad, sir, she 
 couldn't 1 I never saw a girl so scared in my life. She 
 began to beg off, and he simply said, ' Hush ! you can't 
 speak ; ' and, by gad, sir, she couldn't ! It was wonderful. 
 Then he clapped his hands and said, ' Now you're all right ; ' 
 and she was. She didn't chaff him any more, but followed 
 him about the room with her eyes all the evening, as if he 
 had bewitched her." 
 
 " But who is he, anyhow ? " 
 
 " I'm not quite sure, but they say he's a Creole by birth. 
 He came here a few years ago, and his ostensible occupa- 
 tion is a study of 'Skeeters and Bluebottles, or something 
 of that kind; but they say that's only a blind that he per- 
 forms weird rites in his own rooms with that queer foreign 
 woman, Mahmoure di Zulueta. He'll get his head broken 
 by someone some day, if he performs promiscuously on 
 other people's best girls." 
 
 " What's the tie between him and la Zulueta ? " 
 
 " Well, that is a mystery too, and a rather delicate one. 
 He hasn't known her very long, but they're awful thick 
 nearly always together, and people say well you know ! 
 Tom Morrison was catching bass on Lake Ontario some 
 time ago, and saw them together at Niagara, and put them 
 down as a pair of honeymooning turtles." 
 
 " Honeymoon ? " 
 
 " Well sort of. However, there's no fear of Paul marry- 
 ing the dazzling Mahmoure, for if he does, all his money 
 goes to the Preaults of New Orleans. Claude Preault was 
 telling me about it the other day. Naturally they wish he'd 
 marry, but du Peyral's too foxy, and doesn't bother about 
 buying the tree when he can always pick an apple." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 Mr. Murray Hill lunched pensively, and then wandered 
 down the mountain side till he reached Paul du Peyral's 
 rooms. He was greeted with effusion, and presented to 
 Mahmoure, who lay in a sort of happy lethargy on a lounge. 
 It was not long before he spoke of the phenomena of the
 
 128 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 preceding night in terms of admiring interest, and followed 
 an established principle by giving a biassed opinion on a 
 subject he knew nothing about, to the grave amusement of 
 Paul, who itched to give him a practical illustration, bift 
 withstood the temptation manfully. 
 
 When he was gone, Mahmoure looked after him and said : 
 
 " Paul who's your friend ? " 
 
 " Male variety of the genus American sub-order, Dude 
 class, Anglomaniac. A harmless, gentlemanly fellow, 
 with a lot of good stuff in him, masked by a morbid fear of 
 letting it get out." 
 
 " Don't trust him." 
 
 " Good gracious, why ? " 
 
 " Because he is your enemy. Probably he doesn't know 
 why himself, but the way he looked at me and watched you 
 told me that he had some arriere pense'e in coming to see you. 
 Depend upon it he didn't come here for nothing." 
 
 " What an anxious little woman it is ! Well don't be 
 afraid, dear ; he can't hurt me, and he's one of the few men 
 I should care to have around. He has seen the world, and it 
 makes him interesting, because he understands it." 
 
 " That's the very reason you shouldn't be too thick with 
 him, cher ami ; " and could Paul have seen Mr. Murray Hill, 
 as he proceeded up-town on a broad grin and a horse-car, he 
 would have been inclined to agree with her. As it was, all 
 he said was : 
 
 " Well, the only thing I know against him is, that he was 
 a friend of Charles Sturton Baker's when he was over here." 
 
 " That's another name that always frightens me for no 
 earthly reason, when I hear it ; depend upon it, Paul, the 
 combination of those two men is bad." 
 
 " Well, it doesn't affect me if he chooses to keep bad com- 
 pany ; you can put it down to a phase of anglomania. But, 
 by Jove ! one must have it strong if it blunts one's percep- 
 tion of the moral and social qualities of Baker. But come, 
 let us make an experiment. I wonder whether I could make
 
 A N ANGLOMANIA C. 1 29 
 
 you 'appear,' as it is called, to Daphne Pre'ault, who seems 
 such a friend of yours over there." 
 
 " Oh, not to-day, Paul ; you look so tired. It takes too 
 much out of you." 
 
 " Nonsense, little one," replied Paul ; but his wife was 
 quite right. The rings round his eyes were increasing in 
 circumference and deepening in shade, and sometimes even 
 Paul himself felt uneasy at the lassitude that crept over him. 
 Mahmoure', on the other hand, seemed to be gaining strength 
 every day her new-found happiness seemed to restore to 
 her the life she had almost relinquished through sheer in- 
 difference to it ; and sometimes a horrible feeling came over 
 her that, Hermippus-like, she was slowly but surely sapping 
 his vitality, was living with a life drawn in some mysterious 
 manner from his. 
 
 " Nonsense, child," repeated Paul ; " I am a little tired 
 this morning ; that's the result of the mesmerism at Mrs. 
 Lexington Park's last night ; but this afternoon or this even- 
 ing I shall try to make the fair Daphne see a ghost." 
 
 " Doesn't it seem a shame," said Mahmoure, pensively, 
 " to worry her in the way we must, when we are living on 
 money that ought to be hers ? " 
 
 " Good heavens ! what do you mean ? " 
 
 "I don't know. Somehow I seem to have identified 
 myself with her lately, and feel sometimes as if I were 
 ashamed of myself for having been a party to such a dis- 
 honesty for that's what it is, Paul, you can say what you 
 like. I can't help looking at it from her point of view; it's 
 the result of our experiments, I suppose but sometimes it 
 makes me miserable ! " 
 
 " Don't be ridiculous, girl," replied Paul, almost brutally. 
 " I have a mission to fulfil in the world, and that mission is 
 the perfection of mesmeric science. I could not get money 
 enough by fair means to live in the luxury which is necessary 
 to us for the purpose of our experiments, so having got it 
 by foul, I keep it. I don't care how I get it, so long as I 
 have it." 
 9
 
 I 30 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " Oh, don't talk like that. I'm quite serious and it 
 makes me feel as if I were a thief." 
 
 "Oh, indeed! Why this high moral tone all of a sud- 
 den ? " said Paul, with a sneer. " I suppose you want me to 
 play the restitution game, and all that ! " 
 
 " Yes, Paul." 
 
 " Great heavens ! and it's for this that I married you. 
 It's for this that I've tried to satisfy for you the scruples 
 that every woman naturally cherishes. Mahmoure, you will 
 oblige me by not mentioning this subject to me again never. 
 You hear ? " 
 
 " Yes, Paul. There's only one last question I want to ask. 
 If you hadn't this money, should you have enough of your 
 own for us to live on ? " 
 
 " Yes, I should ; but I don't choose to live less comfort- 
 ably than I do. I don't mind telling you that most of the 
 income of old Pre'ault's money is put aside to provide for 
 you in case I die. But I won't hear any more infernal non- 
 sense about proclaiming myself to the world as a swindler. 
 Now we will change the subject, if you please." 
 
 In this little scene all the unscrupulousness of du Peyral's 
 race came out, and it was a kind of poetic justice that Mah- 
 moure should have got such an idea into her head. There 
 is no doubt that it was due to the identification of Mahmoure 
 with Daphne through his own agency. The continual com- 
 munion of the two souls had made the one woman sympa- 
 thize with the other, thinking ajmost with the same mind as 
 she. But neither Paul nor Mahmoure realized this. He 
 thought it a sickly sentimentality that must be crushed out ; 
 she fancied that it was a natural sympathy for the wronged 
 heiress. It was the commencement of a very pretty compli- 
 cation in this history a complication, in fact, on which the 
 entire history was destined to turn. 
 
 If Mr. Murray Hill could have fully realized what was 
 going on in Mahmoure's mind, his task would have been 
 much lightened. As it was he re-arrayed himself in new and
 
 AN ANGL OMA NIA C. 131 
 
 more patriotically English garb, and went and called on Miss 
 Parthenia Van Baulk'em. 
 
 It happened by good or ill luck that, when he was an- 
 nounced at the Van Baulk'ems' mansion, Miss Parthenia 
 was seated in her boudoir, engaged in transferring the gold 
 stamped band bearing the magic name of Pingat-Laferriere 
 from a ball-dress purchased some years ago in Paris, to the 
 waist of a home-made production of the family dressmaker. 
 Miss Van Baulk'em was about to visit friends at Tuxedo, 
 and felt that this band, carelessly exhibited as the gown 
 hung from its appointed peg, was more calculated to impress 
 her friends than the " unsigned " work of art of her more 
 economical modiste. Engaged in this work of indumentary 
 diplomacy, the fair Parthenia was equally busy making confi- 
 dences on the subject of Mr. Charles Sturton Baker to her 
 " greatest girl-friend " for the time being and giving full 
 scope to her venomous little tongue on the subject of M. du 
 Peyral. It was therefore annoying that Mr. Murray Hill 
 should come at that particular moment, but as he was a com- 
 bination of three things strange among the male adherents 
 of the Van Baulk'em menagerie, to wit, a gentleman, a 
 scholar, and a friend of Mr. Baker's, she deemed it expedi- 
 ent to deviate from the strict path of mendacity, and confess 
 that she was " at home." 
 
 Virtue, she felt, was on this occasion its own reward, for 
 Mr. Murray Hill opened the conversation, in terms which 
 were balm to her wounded soul, on the subject of Paul 
 du Peyral, and together they speculated on the possibility of 
 du Peyral having married the beautiful Mahmoure on the 
 quiet. However, the question occurred what could be his 
 object in doing it ? 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Murray Hill, in answer to her question, 
 "there could be only one explanation of the thing. In 
 the first place, if report is not, as usual, a liar, la Zulueta is 
 singularly fickle in the bestowing of her favours, and requires 
 chaining; in the second, du Peyral has evidently been infat- 
 uated by her ; and in the third, he is mad on this mesmeric
 
 '32 
 
 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 business, and she is his champion ' subject. ' Now, every 
 thing seems to point to the fact of his being an utterly un- 
 scrupulous adventurer, so, to keep his victim bound to him, 
 and to steal the Preault inheritance into the bargain, it is 
 quite possible that he has married her somewhere without 
 saying anything about it. What we want to get at is evi- 
 dence of this, circumstantial and documentary. And that is 
 what I propose to do, if I can." 
 
 " My heartfelt wishes for your success go with you," re- 
 sponded Parthenia. " If that man isn't what he pretends to 
 be, the sooner he is hounded out of New York with his 
 ballet-dancer well, actress, if you like the better. Here 
 he has been, for the last three or four years, swelling about 
 the place as an independent gentleman, making love to all 
 sorts of girls, and marrying none of them, besides creating 
 no end of scandals with married women ; so you will be 
 doing a good action to society at large, and a very great 
 favour to me." And the beautiful Parthenia put her hand on 
 Mr. Murray Hill's arm with the coyest little pressure imag- 
 inable, and looked with her great brown eyes deep into his. 
 
 Mr. Murray Hill was only a man after all, and " Phenie " 
 Van Eaulk'em, though vulgar, was very pretty, and when she 
 let him carry her hand unresisting to his lips for the ben- 
 efit of " Charlie " of course he felt that he was indeed a 
 Galahad ; and should " Charlie " prove to be a King Arthur, 
 he was perfectly prepared to become a Sir Launcelot to her 
 Guinevere. Mr. Murray Hill was only a man, after all ! 
 
 That evening Paul du Peyral made his grand experiment 
 of acting through Mahmoure upon Daphne as she slept in 
 Holland Street, Kensington, W., with a measure of success 
 duly to be recorded in the next chapter. 
 
 In her mesmeric trance on this occasion Mahmoure re- 
 tained her own personality, and gave Paul a description of 
 Daphne that astonished him vastly. Was it possible that 
 the Creole heiress resembled him so marvellously in appear- 
 ance ? or was Mahmoure confusing the two personalities,
 
 AN ANGLOMANIAC. 133 
 
 and describing him to himself as Daphne Preault ? It was a 
 problem that he reserved to time and himself for solution.. 
 
 On the following day, as Mahmoure lay curled up among 
 the cushions of the divan, to her amazement Mr. Murray 
 Hill was announced ! At first she was going to reply with an 
 indignant " Not at home ! " when it occurred to her that if 
 this was an enemy, she might as well cast around him her 
 wiles, to make him declare himself. So he was shown into 
 the snuggery on Forty-first Street which is already familiar 
 to our readers. 
 
 " An unexpected pleasure, Mr. Hill," said Mahmoure', as 
 that gentleman seated himself at a respectable distance from 
 the lounge on which she lay curled up as usual. 
 
 " A pleasure, Madame di Zulueta," replied he, " that I 
 should have denied myself on the grounds of etiquette, for I 
 know I ought to have asked permission before venturing to 
 call, had it not been that, though I only had the pleasure of 
 making your acquaintance yesterday, my thoughts turned 
 somehow instinctively to you for sympathy as I passed your 
 door." 
 
 " For sympathy ? " 
 
 " Yes, for sympathy with an indignant man ; though I 
 have no right to be indignant, for my indignation is on 
 account of other people's business, not of my own." 
 
 " But how interesting to find someone so altruistic as to 
 be indignant on someone else's account !" 
 
 " Yes, it is, rather, especially as indignation is a very 
 wearing emotion, and produces gray hairs and wrinkles and 
 things." 
 
 " Are you not going to tell me its cause ? I always thought 
 that you Englishmen never had emotions." 
 
 "You Englishmen." 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, you are English, are you not ? '' ( Oh ! the wily 
 Mahmoure' ! )
 
 134 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 Mr. Murray grew pink with pleasure, and as nearly as 
 possible hauled down his colours as he stammered : 
 
 "Well, no! I'm not quite an Englishman. Of course 
 my family were English, and that makes me very un-Ameri- 
 can, thank God !-and I've lived over there a good deal 
 and" 
 
 Mr. Murray Hill would have gone on with his Macaulay- 
 esque history of himself, only that Mahmoure, having made 
 her coup, didn't care a jot about the fiction she had encour- 
 aged, and so merely cut in with : 
 
 " But your cause of indignation ? " 
 
 " Ah, yes," said Mr. Murray Hill, coming back to fact 
 or rather, abandoning one fiction for another as he remem- 
 bered his business : " I have been very much disturbed 
 this afternoon by a very strange case. A young Englishman 
 is over here, slaving at almost menial literary work for a 
 living, compelled to this course by the unscrupulousness of 
 an American blackguard, who, living in England, has con- 
 trived to rob him of an inheritance that is justly his." 
 
 " Oh, how abominable ! can't you suppress the American 
 blackguard over there ? " 
 
 " Well, blackguard is rather too strong a term. I was led 
 away by my feelings foolish things to have, are they not ? 
 I should have said adventuress, for the swindler over there 
 is a woman." 
 
 " A woman ? how shameful ! " cried Mahmoure, getting 
 interested, and feeling all a woman's vindictiveness against 
 the misdeeds of one of her own sex rising within her as she 
 spoke. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Murray Hill, reflectively, " it is shame 
 ful, for the boy over here ought to be living in elegant inde- 
 pendence, as they say, instead of starving to satisfy the low 
 caprice of an utterly unworthy woman over there." 
 
 " Caprice ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, no doubt we should be able to work upon her 
 sense of right and wrong, but she has married over in 
 Europe some hound of a man whom she supports, and there-
 
 AN ANGLOMANIAC. 1 3 5 
 
 fore there is no chance of inducing her to surrender her ill- 
 gotten wealth." 
 
 " Really, Mr. Hill, this is the most abominable story I 
 ever heard. How can a woman be so wicked ? and how can 
 a man be so mean ? " 
 
 " Should you think it any better or any worse if the case 
 were reversed ? " said he, rising and walking towards the 
 window. " I mean, suppose a man kept a hard-working 
 woman out of her inheritance to support himself and another 
 woman in luxury ? " 
 
 This was a stunner ! It was her own case exactly, and in 
 the light in which it constantly occurred to her. She looked 
 quickly and keenly at the gentle, courteous creature who was 
 playing with his gloves, at the window, standing so that his 
 back was turned to the light. Was this really a true story 
 he was telling her? or was he, like some modern Machia- 
 velli, touching off a torpedo of truth by firing a fuse of fic- 
 tion ? If he were, not the slightest indication thereof ap- 
 peared on Mr. Murray Hill's interesting but impassive face, 
 and Mahmoure, lulled into a sense of security, felt a certain 
 relief at having someone to whom she could cxpiess her 
 views on her own case, and who would turn a sympathetic 
 ear to the cry of her artificially aroused conscience. Arti- 
 ficially, I say, because had she not become so mysteriously 
 identified with Daphne Preault she would never, in thought, 
 have swerved from her allegiance to Paul and his schemes 
 for his own welfare. So after the first shock of astonish- 
 ment was over, she replied quite calmly : 
 
 " I don't think that theoretically it would make any differ- 
 ence to the morals of the situation, but practically speaking, 
 I think it would make all the difference in the world. For 
 a man can always support himself, and a woman cannot 
 respect a man who lives upon her. If the position were 
 reversed, as you suggest, I am certain that the woman who 
 was supported with someone else's money could be acted 
 upon by sympathy for her fellow-woman, and would herself 
 try and induce the man to make restitution. If he would
 
 I 36 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 not do it, and the case were properly presented to her, she 
 would even make restitution herself supposing, that is, that 
 the man could support himself without the other unfortunate 
 woman's money. And even if he couldn't, I believe the 
 woman would try, even if it came to working for herself. 
 Ah ! Mr. Hill, I know we women are awfully hard on one 
 another when we are in independent circumstances, but pity 
 for a really ill-used sister is a very strong factor in many of 
 our actions." 
 
 Mr. Murray Hill was very clever, and knew exactly where 
 to stop he was not like the amateur gardener who stirs up 
 the seed he has sown, with a stick, every day, to see how it 
 is getting on so he stopped here and proceeded to change 
 the subject. We have remarked above that he was only 
 human after all, and Mahmoure', attractive as she was, even 
 when she was nearest to death, was doubly so now that life 
 was beginning to blaze once more from her beautiful eyes. 
 So Mr. Murray Hill was stricken with the brilliant inspira- 
 tion of killing two birds with one stone, and replied, coming 
 close to the divan : 
 
 " Ah, madam, I thank you from my heart ; it is such 
 women as you that make one think better of humanity in 
 general, and of your sex in particular. I bless the day that 
 broke for me when I had the honour of making your 
 acquaintance. A friend of mine used to say that he never 
 knew but one woman who could understand reason, and she 
 wouldn't listen to it. You are unique, for you both listen 
 and understand." And he took her hand and carried it to 
 his lips. 
 
 Mahmoure drew it away somewhat hastily, and arranged 
 herself more stiffly on the divan. 
 
 " Why do you take away your hand ? " said Mr. Murray 
 Hill, trying to get hold of it again. "You cannot be so 
 cruel as to refuse my homage and with such eyes as those 
 that were made to look in love, with such lips as those that 
 were made to smile and kiss."
 
 A N ANGLOMANIA C. 137 
 
 "Mr. Hill!" exclaimed she, standing up, with a look of 
 terror in the eyes he had insulted. 
 
 Mr. Murray Hill believed most of the stories of the 
 "inconsequence" (Balzac again !) of Mahmoure, and fancied 
 that the assumption of dignity was conjured up to spur him 
 to fresh ardour. At that moment Mahmoure' heard the click 
 of Paul's latch-key in the outer door of her "apartment," 
 and the look of terror gave place to one of malicious cour- 
 age. Mr. Murray Hill noted the change, and, misinterpret- 
 ing it by reason of the inferiority of his ear, flung himself 
 on his knees and tried to clasp her in his arms. 
 
 " Mr. Hill ! how dare you ? Paul ! help me ! " 
 
 Paul had burst into the room, and with one bound had 
 caught the enterprising anglomaniac by the collar. Paul 
 was wiry if not muscular, whilst Mr. Murray Hill was a 
 small man. Calmly, and apparently without effort, he 
 dragged the gay Lothario to the front door, and applying a 
 well-aimed kick to that portion of Mr. Murray Hill's person 
 especially constructed for the purpose by Providence, 
 launched him airily into Forty-first Street, to the delight of 
 a small crowd that was listening to the elevating strains of 
 an itinerant band, and then, returning, took Mr. Murray 
 Hill's hat, gloves, and cane, which he cast after him onto 
 the sidewalk. 
 
 "I'm a fool," soliloquized Mr. Murray Hill; "but I have 
 suffered in a good cause. Firstly, it is clear that those two 
 are something more to one another than merely casual lover 
 and mistress ; secondly, that being the case, la Zulueta is 
 conscience-stricken over living on the Preault money ; and 
 thirdly, I'll break that blackguard du Peyral with all the 
 greater joy for this thrilling episode. My God ! let him 
 look out for himself if his record isn't all right ! " 
 
 Meanwhile Paul, the excitement over and the strain 
 relieved, had sunk exhausted onto Mahmoure's divan. 
 Strange, surely, that a man of such physique should pant so 
 after a trifling exertion like the ejection of Mr. Murray Hill ! 
 
 " I don't understand it," said he, in answer to Mali-
 
 138 7777f PKfNCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 moure's anxious inquiry. " If, like Gautier, I could believe 
 in ' avatar,' I should think my soul were getting, in some 
 mysterious way, separated from my body. I think, if my 
 bodily strength would weaken off with it, the balance would 
 be maintained and my vitality would not be so worn-out, as 
 it were ; but it seems to me as if my soul were too weak for 
 my body. I'm not ill ; I'm not even tired ; but all the same, 
 everything seems an effort to me now." 
 
 " Oh, Paul, Paul, are you sure it isn't this mesmerism ? " 
 
 " No, dear, of course not ! or if it is, it is only so in a 
 very slight degree. Something is sapping my vitality, but 
 what it is, and how the change takes place, I cannot hazard 
 a conjecture to explain." 
 
 In this respect Paul resembled many a student in psychol- 
 ogy. Absorbed in the contemplation of the result, his eyes 
 were blinded to the cause, proximate or ultimate. A less 
 profound student than he would have suggested immedi- 
 ately that the repeated concentration of his whole vital force 
 upon Mahmoure and its transference, through her, to 
 Daphne Pre'ault, was gradually robbing him of his very soul. 
 The effect was visible in his decreased vitality, and in the 
 gradual resuscitation, as it were, of Mahmoure, who, day by 
 day, regained the physique which had been hers before she 
 became, as every one supposed, a chronic invalid. In 
 Daphne Preault, a thousand leagues away, the change was 
 visible in an infinity of almost inappreciable ways. Her 
 Creole nature kept coming out more and more strongly ; 
 little coarsenesses, little brutalities, piquant, almost bewitch- 
 ing as they were, would crop out here and there in her 
 language and in her manner of life ; and had not the eyes 
 of Eric Trevanion been blinded by his love, he would have 
 noticed a fact that did not escape those of Mrs. Hawleigh, 
 namely that the Princess Daphne was losing dignity. 
 
 And Paul ? In him the change was the more curious, the 
 more complicated. The loss of his vitality, of his soul- 
 power, as it were, not being the result of any bodily ailment, 
 of any pathological condition, his physique remained identi-
 
 AN ANGLOMANIA C. 1 39 
 
 cally the same. His figure retained that blended grace and 
 strength which had bewitched Mahmoure', as it had be- 
 witched many a woman though in vain before her. His 
 muscular development was unimpaired, but the motor being 
 no longer of a sufficient strength for the machinery, a cer- 
 tain listlessness began to steal over him, which was attrib- 
 uted by his friends to a kind of nervous prostration, by his 
 enemies to discouragement and an evil conscience, and by 
 Mahmoure and she was perhaps nearest the truth to 
 exhaustion caused by his unremitting labors of the mind. 
 
 It is to this listlessness that may be attributed his indiff- 
 erence to the proceedings of Mr. Murray Hill and Miss 
 Parthenia Van Baulk 'em, for though during the next few 
 weeks after the episode above recorded at Mahmoure's, he 
 heard vague rumors of the animosity of that siren and of her 
 henchman, and of enquiries they had set on foot concerning 
 himself and Mahmoure', and their respective antecedents, he 
 did not bother himself to surmise whither those enquiries 
 might lead, but devoted his time, in the privacy of his own 
 apartments, to the tabulation of the notes for his great work 
 on " Psychic Forces, and the influence of Mind upon Mat- 
 ter," which was rapidly approaching completion since he 
 had taken to himself, by chance as it were, so singularly 
 gifted a collaborateuse as Mahmoure di Zulueta. 
 
 The spring of the year was growing old, and the machina- 
 tions of Mr. Murray Hill were slowly but surely progressing. 
 Little by little, with the assistance of Mr. Charles Sturton 
 Faker, who, acting in concert with Eric Trevanion, kept him 
 posted on the condition and position of Miss Daphne Pre- 
 ault, he had pieced together the history of Mr. Paul du 
 Peyral, and, this task accomplished, all that remained was 
 to prove the marriage of that individual and Mahmoure' di 
 Zulueta. This task he set about with enthusiasm, receiving, 
 by way of advance reward, the approbation of Miss Van 
 Baulk'em, from an interview with whom he one day set 
 forth to find the before-referred-to Tom Morrison, his pulses 
 dancing wildly, his fingers still warm with the pressure of the
 
 140 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 fair Parthenia's unresisting if not encouraging hand, dazed 
 with the minion of divers blandishments which not even 
 the iudisc 1 dun *. f the novelist can reveal, and which had 
 been lavished upon him by the siren, " for the benefit of 
 Charlie," of course, but in no wise the less fascinating to 
 Mr. Murray Hill on that account. Entre nous, dear reader, 
 it had dimly occurred to Mr. Murray Hill that, in the first 
 place, his own income was only sufficient for his own main- 
 tenance in elegant leisure ; in the second it was a pity that 
 Miss Parthenia's millions should be bestowed upon an alien ; 
 and Miss Parthenia having been more or less successfully 
 chaperoned through a London season by a lady who had 
 hidden most of Parthenia's vulgarity beneath the asgis of 
 her own pure-blooded aristocracy of birth and nature, the 
 said young woman having in turn suppressed her failures 
 and exaggerated her successes with artistic mendacity 
 in the third, that it would be an excellent scheme to marry 
 that young woman himself, preparatory to carrying her over 
 to London, where, according to her own account, she had a 
 certain apocryphal social position, and where he could 
 gradually cut himself and her free from the associations of 
 her horrible family. 
 
 He knew that it would be difficult if not impossible for 
 him to hold, personally, any further communication with 
 Mahmoure ; but he bore very minutely in mind the recollec- 
 tion of the way she had received his carefully prepared story 
 of the ill-used Englishman, and felt that, if properly ap- 
 proached, she might become an ally most important in the 
 subversion of Mr. Paul du Peyral ; and having occupied a 
 few more weeks in collecting evidence in a manner which is 
 too obvious to need recapitulation here such as searching 
 the registers at Niagara and so on Mahmoure was one 
 morning aroused to the contemplation of her matutinal 
 coffee, flanked by an envelope bearing upon its upper left- 
 hand corner the name and address of an eminent legal firm, 
 addressed to her in the alarming legibility of the Remington 
 type-writer.
 
 AN ANGLOMANIAC. \ \ \ 
 
 There is only one thing that alarms a woman more than a 
 mouse or a telegram, and that is an obviously " business ' 
 communication. Little wonder therefore that Mahmoure', 
 rousing herself into vivid wakefulness and a sitting position 
 among the pink-silk sheets of her pretty dortoir, neglected 
 the ridiculous in favour of the sublime, and forgot her coffee 
 in contemplation of the " lawyer's letter." 
 
 If the outside had disturbed her, how much more the 
 rnside, which read as follows : 
 
 Offices of SELIGMAN, SEARCHER, & CERTIORARI. 
 No. 195 Nassau St., NEW YORK CITY. 
 [Two enclosures^ 2$d May, 18 
 
 DEAR MADAME : 
 
 Information which has recently come to hand 
 prompts us to write to you for corroboration or explanation 
 on a subject which is of the last importance, both to clients 
 of ours and to yourself, and we trust you will answer our com- 
 munication in the spirit in which it is made, with a view to 
 saving all parties concerned the annoyance and expense of 
 complicated legal proceedings. Without wishing to trouble 
 you with details upon a matter with which you may or may 
 not be already familiar, it is necessary to state that the mar- 
 riage of Mr. Paul du Peyral entails certain consequences 
 and duties upon the executors and beneficiaries of the estate 
 of the late Casimir Preault of Baton Rouge in Louisiana. 
 From information which has been put into our hands it ap- 
 pears that in the fall of last year you were privately married 
 to this gentleman in the village of Niagara, Ontario, Canada. 
 We shall be glad if you will sign and return to us one of the 
 enclosed documents, to wit, the acknowledgment of that 
 marriage, or its specific denial. 
 
 We are, dear Madame, 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 SELIGMAN, SEARCHER, & CERTIORARI. 
 
 To MADAME DI ZULUETA, 
 
 No. West Forty-First Street, City.
 
 142 THE PRINCESS DATHXE. 
 
 To say that Mahmoure was frightened by this ominous 
 missive is to employ a miserably inadequate term, and one 
 in no sense fitted to the state of the case. Hardly conscious 
 of what she was doing, she dressed herself with lightning 
 rapidity, and flew as fast as an American hansom could take 
 her, over the boulderous moraines known in New York by 
 the euphemism, " streets," and arrived breathless with ex- 
 citement, at the door of Paul's flat, where she admitted her- 
 self with her latch-key. Into the dining-room, lest he should 
 be at breakfast Paul was not there ; into the study, lest he 
 should be already at work Paul was not there ; through the 
 portieres of the study, into his bedroom, lest Paul should not 
 yet have risen and there she found him. 
 
 Asleep ? surely not ; for he lay motionless and senseless 
 as she flung herself on her knees by his side. In vain she 
 strove to arouse him from his lethargy; in-vains he implored 
 him to open his eyes, which she covered with kisses. In an 
 agony she tore down the bed-clothes and laid her hand upon 
 his heart ; a feeble, intermittent beat was the only sign which 
 her husband gave her to tell her he was still alive. 
 
 Paul du Peyral lay dying.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CLOUDS. 
 
 " WHAT I say is this," remarked Gerome Markham, as he 
 dallied with a muffin and a cigarette in the Eastons' studio, 
 one warm spring afternoon : " morality is a question of geo- 
 graphy, and whilst not, perhaps, advocating the same latitude 
 of action as that implied by the motto of the monks of Med- 
 enham, * fay {e quevouldrasj still, in the Bohemia of Holland 
 Street, the red, white, and black flag covers a multitude of 
 trifles that would be sins in West Kensington, crimes in the 
 provinces, and eminently good form in St. James's. And on 
 the principle that we have adopted as a precept, ' live and 
 let live,' I don't see what we have to do with Eric Trevanion 
 and the Princess Daphne." 
 
 " Well, to a great extent I agree with you, but it does seem 
 strange that Daphne Preault s who has rather gone in for 
 taking a high moral ground, should get herself so very un- 
 pleasantly talked about," responded Sylvia Easton. " Give 
 me of your light, for like that of the foolish virgin, my cigar- 
 ette has gone out ! " 
 
 " After all, you know," observed Dick Lindsay, who, from 
 a distant corner, beamed through his spectacles on the other 
 three, to wit, Sylvia and Eva Easton 'and Gerome Markham, 
 " a little scandal un tout petit scandalorama, as Vautrin 
 would say, has the inestimable advantages of an advertise- 
 ment, and would give an additional value to the Princess' 
 autograph." 
 
 " Well, you'd better collect it at once," said Eva Easton, 
 " for Mr. Baker says she's got a grand lawsuit coming on in 
 America, which will probably make her retire into wealthy 
 insignificance. Do you collect autographs, Mr. Lindsay ? " 
 
 143
 
 144 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " Not personally ; I used to collect them once for a great- 
 aunt from whom I had ' expectations,' but when one day I 
 sent her a slab of plaster, with ' Mem, Mene, Tekel, Uphar- 
 sin ' scratched on it, and signed ' BelshazzarJ she left off 
 collecting, as she said it was too great a strain on my inven- 
 tive faculties. She then proceeded to make a new will and 
 die I got nothing but her autograph album." 
 
 " Well, you uught to be thankful for small mercies." 
 
 " Yes, like the man who had gout in both feet and thanked 
 God he wasn't a centipede ! But unfortunately I'm not. I'm 
 sure I was meant to live a life of dignified ease, not to drive 
 myself melancholy-mad by writing cast-iron humour from 
 morn till dewy eve, from dewy eve till deuced late. But still, 
 it might be worse. Just fancy being ' something in the city,' 
 like your friend whom you mentioned just now, Mr. Charles 
 Sturton-Baker." 
 
 "I'm sure," said Sylvia Easton, "there isn't much the 
 matter with Mr. Baker, except the hyphen in his name and 
 that's harmless. He makes a great deal of money, which is 
 more than we do ! " 
 
 " Ah, you'd better get his recipe for us," observed Mark- 
 ham. 
 
 " Go to the ant, thou sluggard," said Eva ; " consider her 
 ways and be awakened to the error of your own." 
 
 " That's just it," returned Lindsay ; " I havn't got any 
 aunt and when I had, I used to wake her up a good deal 
 more than she did me." 
 
 " Oh, how dare you ? To pun is human ; to forgive, divine. 
 However, I'll forgive you," said Sylvia, " and if you're good, 
 I'll get Mr. Baker's recipe for you or Eric's." 
 
 " Well, I don't know that I want either of them, for they 
 seem very similar. Baker is always swaggering about some 
 drivellingly idiotic American heiress or other, that he declares 
 is madly in love with him, poor little thing! And it strikes 
 me that if Travanion /&ri knew much about his hopeful son, 
 he'd cut off the supplies ; perhaps that's why Eric is so 
 anxious to secure the Princess' fortune for her."
 
 CLOUDS. 145 
 
 " For shame, Dick ! " said Eva. " If you could catch an 
 heiress, you'd. do it on the spot, I k^ow." 
 
 " Not at all," replied he, shamelessly. " Why, here I am, 
 positively dying of love tor you, Eva, and we've nothing to 
 live on but bread and cheese, with kisses, whereof the first is 
 not nice in excess, and the second isn't nourishing in any 
 quantity." 
 
 " Sorry I spoke," remarked Eva, blushing nevertheless a 
 lively crimson, as Dick Lindsay continued to beam on her 
 through the gold-rimmed spectacles. 
 
 " Those two will quarrel in a minute," said Sylvia ; " they 
 always do. Tell me, Mr. Markham, how are the Hawleighs 
 getting on ? " 
 
 " Ah ! there's a happy family for you, if you like. There's 
 no getting over the fact that ' Sunshine in the Fog* is the 
 picture of the year ; and now Gabriel floats in golden seas. 
 Dealers and amateurs vie with one another to buy his work, 
 and unless his health gives out, we shall see our dear boy 
 both rich and celebrated in a very short time." 
 
 " Ah ! and then I suppose he'll marry Maye Trevethick? " 
 
 "Oh, /&J/ tiens ! tiens ! how indiscreet you are! The 
 idea of a young woman announcing as a fact what we all 
 know but keep to ourselves. Of course he'll marry Miss 
 Trevethick, and he'll be a jolly lucky fellow ; but we shall 
 all be delightedly surprised when it's announced." 
 
 " Do you know," said Eva Easton, pensively, as she bent 
 over her work, " I always had an idea that she was in love 
 with Eric." 
 
 " I hope not, for all their sakes," returned Gerome Mark- 
 ham. "In the first place, Eric has only one idea in the 
 world, and that's Daphne Prdault ; in the second, it would 
 break poor Gabriel's heart ; and in the third, it would be 
 very ungrateful of her, for without the Hawleighs she'd have 
 been obliged to go out as a governess or companion, or 
 something." 
 
 " Pooh ! " exclaimed Eva, with a quick glance at Dick 
 Lindsay ; " what has gratitude to do with it ? "
 
 146 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " Unfortunately nothing," replied Markham, gravely ; and 
 he rose to go. 
 
 Lindsay followed his example, and the two men left to- 
 gether. 
 
 Outside the door Lindsay remarked : " I say, Markham, I 
 don't like the look of things in this street. The Princess is 
 compromising herself badly, and Eric's letting himself drift ; 
 one of these days he'll be pulled up short. And I'm afraid 
 there's something in what Eva said about Maye Trevethick 
 caring about him." 
 
 " Well," replied Markham, as they parted to go in oppo- 
 site directions, " all I can say is, I hope not. I should be 
 sorry to see Gabriel and Maye wreck their lives ; but I fear 
 Eric is doing that same, even now. ' Who lives will see ! ' 
 An reroirf" 
 
 From the above conversation, which was only one out of 
 many like unto it which the eaves-dropping walls of Holland 
 Street overheard about this time, the reader will have 
 gathered to a certain extent how matters stood with the 
 quartette in whom we are mainly interested. The doors of 
 Burlington House had opened on the first Monday in May 
 to a crowd that were unanimous in their verdict upon Ga- 
 briel's picture as " the picture of the year," and Gabriel had 
 the remunerative work of a lustrum on his hands, in the 
 commissions showered upon him by European and American 
 patrons of art. The days of struggle and genteel poverty 
 seemed to have ended for him, and it was with the new light 
 of a great tenderness in his eyes that, nowadays, he would 
 watch Maye at work in her corner of the studio, whilst Mrs. 
 Hawleigh regarded the consummation of her hopes as prac- 
 tically within her reach, and felt that she was amply re- 
 warded for the sacrifices she had made at the altar of her 
 son's genius. 
 
 As for Maye, the only change in her was one which 
 was sedulously hidden from the outer world, for she con- 
 cealed the excitement that an intuitive sense of the ap- 
 proach of a crisis in her life caused her in her heart her
 
 CLOUDS. 147 
 
 heart, which concealed also the dull, deathly pain that she 
 suffered when she thought, or anyone spoke to her, of Eric. 
 But her home-life seemed even purer and sweeter than here- 
 tofore, and rilled her often with a dim, soft melancholy, 
 when, at the death of the daylight, she would sit down to 
 the piano in the studio, and Gabriel would follow her into an 
 ecstasy of music with his violin, which was now his one 
 fondly cherished recreation. 
 
 Often they would wander among the harmonies of 
 Chopin, of Beethoven, of Kalliwoda, of De Beriot, of 
 Brahms, and of the other masters ; but more often Maye 
 would lead off with an improvised theme, and Gabriel, tak- 
 ing it up, would follow her through its variations and mod- 
 ulations, until, trembling all over, he would fall on the 
 lounge in the altitude of the painting in Daphne's studio, and 
 lie silent and happy, whilst Maye resolved the harmonies of 
 the theme as it died away under her fingers. 
 
 " Maye," said he, one day, as the music ceased, " how 
 strange it is that you and I should think as it were with one 
 brain when we play ! Do you know, dear, it seems to me 
 sometimes almost eerie that such a perfect sympathy should 
 exist between us. How is it, do you think ? " 
 
 " I hardly know, Gabriel," she replied, a strange feeling 
 seizing her heart, and driving the blood, it seemed to her, 
 into her throat. " I suppose it is that we live here in such 
 perfect accord we three that the same thoughts occur to 
 us when we play, and express themselves in our music." 
 
 " Ah ! pray God that you speak the truth, Maye. Some- 
 times, do you know, the thought comes to me that it may all 
 cease suddenly, and that we might be separated ; and the 
 thought is almost more than I can bear. Maye," he con- 
 tinued, earnestly, and coming closer to her, " you have been 
 more than a sister to me since you have been here with us ; 
 you know, don't you, dear, that I feel more than a brother 
 to you. For I love you very dearly, sweetheart ; you have 
 guessed that, haven't you ? I've never told you so, for we've 
 been so poor, though it's been on my lips a thousand times,
 
 148 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 and in my heart always. But now, thank God, it seems as 
 if a change had come, and even if we are not rich, we shall 
 be quite independent. Can you love me a little in this 
 newer, sweeter way, darling ? Heaven knows that the only 
 joy I can find in my life lies in the thought that I can lay it 
 at your feet will you take it, dear ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Gabriel ! " 
 
 " Perhaps I ought not to have spoken so soon, but to me 
 it seems as if I had waited, oh ! so long, for to-day ; but I 
 have an excuse for speaking, dear I love you so." He 
 sank on his knee by her side, and slipping his arm around 
 her waist, covered the hand that lay in her lap with kisses. 
 
 She looked straight before her, with a dry, far away look in 
 her eyes, answering never a word, but clasping the hand 
 that encircled her waist, as if in doubt whether to draw it 
 closer round her, or to fling it away. 
 
 " Answer me, darling, won't you ? or shall I wait ? " said 
 he at last, trembling for her great silence. 
 
 " No, you must not wait any longer, dear ; what can I say 
 to you ? You and the madre have been so good to me that 
 if I can make you happy in return, I have no right to deny 
 what you ask of me, even though it be my life myself." 
 
 " Oh, no, no, not like that," he cried, springing to his feet ; 
 " don't think of gratitude, dear. You know that I shall love 
 you just the same, even if you cannot think me worthy of 
 you as your husband. If you will come to me and be the 
 light of my life, let it be in love, and not in dull, cold grati- 
 tude. Oh ! tell me that you love me, darling," 
 
 There was a moment's pause as she also rose to her feet, 
 and turning, faced him as he stood, a great half-fearful joy 
 in his eyes. And then she put both her hands on his 
 shoulders, and looking up at him, answered, gravely : 
 
 " Yes, Gabriel, I love you very dearly, and I will be your 
 wife if you want me to." 
 
 His answer was to clasp her wildly in his arms, and then, 
 as she broke from him and ran out of the stuuio, he sank
 
 CLOUDS. 149 
 
 once more upon the lounge, almost unconscious with the ex- 
 quisite joy of the moment that made her his. 
 
 And she ? 
 
 She ran up to her own room, and flinging herself upon her 
 bed, burst into an agony of tears. 
 
 She had never realized perhaps till that moment how she 
 loved Eric Trevanion. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Meanwhile the days that came and went brought little 
 change to Eric and Daphne, so far as their love for one 
 another was concerned ; but already there had crept into it 
 those tiny carelessnesses which seem to be the fate of love 
 .after the first flush of its dawn has paled into the broad day- 
 light of custom. This, however, did not affect Eric so much 
 as the terror that sometimes took possession of him a terror 
 that some horrible change was taking place in the soul of 
 the Princess whom he had elevated to be his Queen. 
 
 There is no doubt about it, humiliating as is the confes- 
 sion, that there is something singularly unpleasant to man 
 about maladies of all kinds. If anyone shows symptoms of 
 faintness or other distress, in a party, the men get perfectly 
 miserable with nervousness. Not so the women ; they, as it 
 were, gird themselves together and watch, vulture-like, for 
 the moment at which their services will be required. This 
 difference comes out equally in conversation. What is so in- 
 teresting to the female mind as a discussion of the maladies 
 to which the conversants and their friends are subject, the ep- 
 idemics of infantile diseases which have attacked such and 
 such families of their acquaintance ? Not so the man. Man 
 A. says to man B., " How's C ? " " Oh, C ! poor devil ! some- 
 thing wrong with him, I believe. Had measles and went out 
 riding, got thrown and broke three ribs, got a chill lying on 
 the grass, and the worry of it all gave him brain fever ! 
 Come and have a glass of sherry going to the D.'s this 
 evening? " Now this would have formed the subject of an 
 hour's conversation to Mrs. A. and Mrs. B., with illustrations
 
 1 50 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 of what happened to C., what Dr. E. had said about him, and 
 the remedies exhibited. 
 
 From all of which the reader will gather that the nervous 
 and sometimes almost hysterical state into which the Princess 
 Daphne was getting, by consequence of her repeated " mad 
 attacks," as Eric used to playfully say and seriously think, 
 was not so much a cause of pity to him as one of nervous 
 irritation ; and when he saw them coming on he would dis- 
 semble and fly ; and when she described them to him, he 
 used to pay little or no attention, or laugh at her. There- 
 fore the account of her visions fell flat when she told him of 
 them, and he merely put them down to a higher development 
 of her nervous condition, which the doctor who has before 
 been mentioned still ascribed to " a trifling indigestion, a 
 slight derangement of the stomach which this draught will 
 effectually," etc., etc. " seven- and-six-pence thank you ! " 
 
 But Clyde listened with weird-struck ears to the account 
 of how, three times at least, Daphne had been awakened by 
 an indefinable sensation that something was looking at her 
 of how, on clearing from her eyes the mists of sleep, she 
 had seen before her the figure of a lithe, supple, but withal 
 beautiful woman who looked at her out of great soft brown 
 eyes, which, so far from frightening the Princess, rather 
 attracted and soothed her than otherwise ; and Eric felt 
 almost alarmed at the importance she ascribed to these 
 visitations, and almost annoyed at the quasi-affectionate 
 interest she took in what she playfully called " her ghost." 
 
 However, a more serious consideration had crept into the 
 politics of the Eric-Daphne manage. We have said that Eric 
 lived in somewhat princely style in the colony, on the liberal 
 allowance made him by his father. Now the elder Trevan- 
 ion was an individual most easy to get on with so long as he 
 wasn't contradicted ; but differ from him on a course to be 
 adopted, and the firmness on which he prided himself, cas- 
 tled in his old Cornish manor, became divided from pig- 
 headedness by a line bf demarcation that was fearfully slight. 
 In the earliest days of the love of Eric and Daphne, Trevan-
 
 CLOUDS. 151 
 
 ion/<?r<? gave an entertainment " to the county," and as was 
 his wont, sent for Eric, as his son and heir, to assist in 
 entertaining the innocuous magnates who (their names 
 beginning, almost to a man, with the ancestral Cornish 
 syllables, Tre, Pol, and Pen) considered that to be a Corn- 
 ishman was to live, whilst to be anything else was merely to 
 exist on sufferance. Eric, like an historic prototype, an- 
 swered that "he could not come," and having nailed his col- 
 ours or rather Daphne's colour's, the red, white, and black 
 of Bohemia to the mast, just didn't. Trevanion pere was 
 much annoyed, and began to make enquiries into what 
 could possibly keep Eric in London when he wanted him at 
 Trthwwsthpllgg Manor. The result of his enquiries was 
 that his letters to Eric began to hint at a proximate return to 
 Trthwwsthpllgg, and an ultimate marriage and culminating 
 respectability of behaviour, with solemn dinner-parties and 
 grandchildren at recurring intervals. To these suggestions 
 Eric replied at first not at all, then playfully, then sarcastic- 
 ally, then seriously, with a point-blank prayer to the governor 
 not to talk bosh. 
 
 As an immediate result, Eric was apprised that if he did 
 not at once return home and marry a Cornish maiden, and 
 give other trifling evidences of submission to parental author- 
 ity, the supplies would be cut off, and the commissariat 
 would dry up. " There can only be one excuse for you to 
 remain in London," papa Trevanion had said in this let- 
 ter, "and that is, that you have found idiots sufficiently 
 weak to buy your pictures, or editors sufficiently courageous 
 in their ignorance to buy your articles on the ' Potentiality 
 of the But,' and so on. You therefore can get on without 
 an allowance from me, and from this quarter it ceases." 
 
 And so Eric found himself in the exciting condition of hav- 
 ing to make his own living or dying by his own unaided 
 exertions. 
 
 Here was naturally food for thought, and for a couple of 
 days Eric was very thoughtful. At the end of that time, as 
 he sat idle at his desk in Daphne's studio, she came up be-
 
 152 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 hind him, and, putting her arms about his neck, laid her 
 cheek against his and said: 
 
 "Eric, you are not kind ; there's something on your mind 
 that you haven't told me anything about. What is it, old 
 man ? " 
 
 "Oh, nothing of importance, dear, " he had replied, a little 
 wearily. 
 
 So she had insisted, using the thousand arguments and 
 persuasions that a woman who knows her power can use 
 with impunity, until at last, taking the letter above referred 
 to from his pocket, he handed it to her without a word. In 
 similar silence she read it through and returned it to him. 
 
 "Well?" he said, finding that she made no remark. 
 
 " Have you any money of your very own independently 
 of the governor ? " 
 
 " Not a penny. " 
 
 " Good ! you will have to make some. " 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 " Why, by writing stuff that will sell, of course. " 
 
 " Well, I've been trying to do that for months, " he replied, 
 " and I dont seem to have got the knack of it yet. " 
 
 "Of course not, " returned Daphne, "because you haven't 
 absolutely required to sell your work. Now you do, and you 
 must adopt a different style. " 
 
 " It strikes me I shall have to adopt a different style of 
 existence altogether. I don't see how I am to go on spend- 
 ing a thousand a year on nothing per annum, paid quarterly." 
 
 " So much the better for you, Eric. Your days of amateur 
 literature are over ; you must descend from the altitude of 
 transcendental essay to the dead level of the pot-boiler. 
 You must write stories for the magazines and articles for 
 the reviews ; paragraphs for society papers, and political 
 squibs. You are no longer Samuel Rogers, you are Lucien 
 de Rubempre'. " 
 
 "What's the use, Daph? the editors will ' regret that want 
 of space prevents,' etc., etc., as heretofore. I was never 
 Samuel Rogers, and I wont stoop to copy Balzac's gentle
 
 CLOUDS. 153 
 
 hero. Why, only yesterday I got a letter with the stamp of 
 Smith's Monthly on it. I didn't even open it, I knew so 
 well what's in it. " 
 
 " Where is it ? " asked Daphne, a queer look coming into 
 her eyes, as she held out her hand. 
 
 " Oh, it's here somewhere here it is, " said he, giving it 
 to her. 
 
 "Ah ! " said she, opening it ; " this was unimportant yes- 
 terday or the day before. It isn't so insignificant now. 
 Your article on ' Atlantis and Yucatan ' is accepted, and 
 you will get the proofs in a day or two. " 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed ; " why, those people refused it 
 once. " 
 
 " Well, they've seen the error of their ways, that's all, " 
 replied the Princess, with a little laugh. " Now, look here, 
 Eric; you've got to take this matter into your own hands 
 ' right now,' as we say in America. This letter proves that if 
 you will only take my advice, you'll get on all right. In the 
 first place, you have the finest studio in Holland Street. You 
 don't paint, and you don't want it, except to spend money 
 in ; you haven't got the money to spend now, so you don't 
 want the studio, and you must give it up. Oh ! don't make 
 faces ; I know what I'm talking about. Just opposite, there 
 are a couple of rooms both vacant and cheap. You can 
 make them very pretty and comfortable with some of the stuff 
 you've got in your studio, and you must move in at once and 
 set to work in earnest. " 
 
 " But, Daph, I can't suddenly proclaim myself a pauper." 
 
 " That doesn't alter the fact that you are one, dear. " 
 
 " Please, don't." 
 
 " But you are, Eric." 
 
 " Well, if I can't afford to live in the old place, how can I 
 in the new ? " 
 
 " Why, very easily. In the first place you are going to 
 make money by writing, and until you have made it, I have 
 plenty. Besides, my solicitor, or rather the solicitor to my 
 second cousin's estate, tells me that he thinks that that
 
 I 54 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 money will come to me after all, in a short time. I suppose 
 Paul du Peyral has grown tired of bachelorhood at last. We 
 have plenty to live on, in any case." 
 
 " Thank you ! I don't want it to be said that the moment 
 I got poor I married you for your money." 
 
 " Married ! Good heavens ! who talks of marrying ? we're 
 very happy as we are. The only difference will be that 
 when you were rich you spent your money on me, and now 
 you are poor, I spend mine on you. Nobody need know 
 anything about it ! " 
 
 " Daphne ! by Jupiter, you do want me to become Lucien 
 de Rubempre' in a hurry. Do you imagine that I /, Eric 
 Trevanion, am going to live upon you ? Hush ! not a word 
 more if you please on the subject ; you insult me uninten- 
 tionally, I know; but your proposition is an insult all the 
 same. Don't you want to marry me ? " He had risen and 
 was pacing feverishly up and down the room. At her 
 answer he came to a dead full stop in front of her. 
 
 " Not in the least ! " she said, calmly ; " I prefer to remain 
 as I am ! " 
 
 " Good God ! what am I coming to ? " he cried. " Never 
 dare to make such a suggestion to me again you hear ! 
 never dare. " 
 
 " Eric I dare anything. I love you, and I intend to make 
 a great man of you. You have all the possibilities, and if 
 you will take my advice, you are bound to succeed. For 
 the moment, however, you want my help. It is yours to 
 take and mark me, my mind is made up. " 
 
 " Well so is mine. It is useless to prolong this discus- 
 sion we shall not agree. I am going home now to think 
 matters over a little. When I come back, don't let me 
 hear any more of this preposterous thing. Perhaps I am 
 going to be successful well, success means independence, 
 and I z//7/be independent. Au revoir" 
 
 " Au revoir" she said, lazily stretching herself in the 
 divan as he left the studio. And ten minutes after, the
 
 CLOUDS. 155 
 
 Princess, with a little ironical smile on her lips, had fallen 
 fast asleep ! 
 
 Later in the afternoon he burst in upon her, pale with 
 anger, and with a roll of proof-slips in his hand. 
 
 " What have you been doing with this article of mine ? " 
 he exclaimed, by way of greeting. 
 
 " Making it salable, cher ami" she replied, with a grin. 
 
 " Making it vulgar, you mean. How dare you interfere 
 with my work ? You can talk as much as you like ; fortun- 
 ately I have sufficient self-respect not to take your advice ; 
 but oblige me by leaving my work as I finish it. I shall 
 alter these proofs so as to make them resemble, at any rate, 
 my original manuscript let this be the first and last per- 
 formance of this little comedy." 
 
 " Do as you like, Eric. If you like to make a fool of 
 yourself, do. Your stuff will only be re-rejected at the last 
 moment." 
 
 "Time will show. Now, let us drop the second unpleasant 
 subject that has arisen between us to-day. I wonder you 
 can worry me so, when you know I have so much on my 
 mind ! " he concluded, querulously. 
 
 " Well, well, darling, I did it for the best, and I hope that 
 in time you will come to look at things as I do ; meanwhile 
 we wont talk about it. Oh ! don't be angry, dear ; I love 
 you so." 
 
 But he was angry. He returned her caress in a very 
 half-hearted way, and his manner hurt her finer nature, 
 which happened for the moment to be in the ascendant. 
 Presently he broke the silence again by saying : 
 
 " I've been thinking over what you said about moving 
 out of the studio, and have been seeing exactly how I stand. 
 By the time all my bills have come in, I shall be pretty 
 hard up, until some of these editors pay me for my work ; so 
 it will be better for me to move. I don't see why I should 
 be ashamed of being poor. I'll see about the necessary 
 arrangements at once." 
 
 " Good ! " she replied, drawing him down by her side on
 
 1 56 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 the lounge. " I am almost glad the governor has cut up 
 rough, do you know, dear ; I shall have you more to myself 
 now, and I shall be more a part of your life in future." 
 
 It was almost with a sense of discomfort that he listened 
 to her words, and presently he disengaged himself to go 
 over to his own writing-table. And in the long silence 
 which followed, the thoughts of the two were taking an 
 identical direction : both realized that a new era had dawned 
 in their lives, but they looked forward into that future with 
 very different feelings feelings, however, that they did not 
 express to one another. 
 
 In an hour Eric had removed from his article almost every 
 trace of the Princess' handiwork, and had posted his cor- 
 rected proofs to the editor of Smith's Monthly, feeling almost 
 satisfied with himself. She had meant well, he said to him- 
 self ; she was a good girl, and he was very -fond of her. 
 Ah ! the world ? Ah yi ! Let us remark, apropos de bottes, 
 that between " une femme gu'il aime " and " une femme qui 
 t'aime" there is only the difference of an apostrophe and 
 what is punctuation in a love story ? 
 
 And so Eric settled down to a new life. Of course his 
 abandonment of the gorgeous studio next door to the 
 Hawleighs was a theme for great wonderment in the colony, 
 but it became generally understood that Eric had had re- 
 verses of some kind, and, being no longer the merry plutocrat 
 of hitherto, had cut down his expenses and had taken to lit- 
 erature in search of a livelihood. This did not in any way 
 impair his position in the colony ; on the contrary, they liked 
 him the better for it. There were few, if any, of " the boys " 
 who did not know what it was to be periodically " broke," 
 and that Eric should come to the same complexion seemed 
 to draw him still nearer to them, and went far toward abol- 
 ishing a certain feeling that had existed in holes and corners, 
 to the effect that the wealthy amateur had no absolute right 
 to share the pleasures and sorrows of the colony, but was 
 admitted rather on sufferance than otherwise. 
 
 Eric had, in these first days, but little doubt of his ulti-
 
 CLOUDS. 157 
 
 mate success as a man of letters, though it struck him as 
 decidedly odd when he got a polite communication from the 
 editor of Smith's Monthly to the effect that in its altered 
 form his article was not suited to the requirements of the 
 magazine, and asking should it be inserted as it stood in 
 the duplicate proof sent therewith, or should the article, in 
 its new form, be cancelled ? Now, Eric wanted the money 
 somewhat, and the magazine paid well and promptly ; should 
 he pocket his pride and accept what he called the Princess' 
 "garblement" ? After much consideration he decided so to 
 do, and, to the sorrow of all persons concerned, be it related 
 that this was apparently, for a long while at least, Eric's first 
 and last literary success. From this time forward, so surely 
 as he sent an article or story to any periodical, so surely was 
 it returned to him. Once or twice he posted a many-times- 
 returned manuscript to some third- or fourth-rate magazine 
 of no antecedents and doubtful future, and got it in, but 
 never got paid for it, considering it something gained to 
 have got rid of it at all. 
 
 And thus did Eric's literary apprenticeship begin, with 
 all its trials and disappointments. Who is there of us who 
 woo the Muse of Literary Fame, who has not been through 
 it ? The stories of young writers who, reduced in circum- 
 stances, have made a wild sensation, and sprung to the first 
 rank with a first work, have ever been, to me, purely apocry- 
 phal, as they must ever be to anyone who has adopted litera- 
 ture as a profession and not as a recreation, and who has 
 pitched his literary tent, so to speak, day after day in that 
 " Elysium of the Literary Unwashed," the Reading-Room of 
 the British Museum. The dogmatist who laid down the par- 
 adoxical axiom that " No man can make a living by letters 
 until he is dead," exaggerated of course exaggeration is 
 the prerogative of the inculcator of axioms ; but it is equally 
 true that, except in a few very rare instances, men who have 
 written standard works for all time, have been men in abso- 
 lutely independent circumstances, whose works cost them far 
 more to write than they ever brought home to their authors
 
 158 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 in the form of publisher's cheques. Now and then one hears 
 of a great success made by a writer of fiction who has never 
 before seen the light of day as it shines upon a book-stall. 
 If we only knew his esoteric history, we should find that his 
 book is made up of the few good things that have brightened 
 three or four previous still-born productions ; and our opin- 
 ion in the matter is usually confirmed by the subsequent 
 publication, " on his reputation," of the sweepings of the 
 waste-paper basket to which he had consigned his " Rejected 
 Addresses." 
 
 For the man who has the pluck to destroy his rejected 
 manuscripts and start fresh, regarding his futile efforts 
 merely in the light of " practice," I have always reserved my 
 choicest salaam ; I have known but few such. And if it is 
 an agony to the wealthy amateur to see his works, like the 
 curses of the proverbialist, come home to roost, can ye im- 
 agine, "ye gentlemen of England who live at home in ease," 
 what are the feelings of the young writer who has put off 
 importunate landwomen and tradesmen with a promise of 
 payment "on receipt of a cheque from his publishers," when 
 he arrives home late at night from some Bohemian entertain- 
 ment or other, and sees on the table in the hall, by the dim 
 light of the frugally lowered gas-jet, an oblong package, 
 with a letter tucked under the string which secures it, and 
 he thinks to himself, as, without looking at it, he carries it 
 up-stairs in the dark, " Which of them is this ? " and pres- 
 ently unwraps some pet essay or other, on which he counted 
 with all the fondness of a confiding mother ? Ah, sirs ! then 
 is the moment of tears, not of tears which flow from the 
 lachrymal glands, but from the tear-well in the heart, as one 
 asks one's self the question, " Am I a failure ? shall I ever be 
 able to write for a living ? " We of Bohemia know what it 
 is we have suffered, nous autres ! and I am not writing these 
 lines for the eyes of the specialists who periodically write an 
 article to order, on their hobbies, or for the public characters 
 whose signature covers a multitude of literary sins that are 
 unpardonable in the scholar, but for the earnest student who
 
 CLOUDS. 1 59 
 
 has apparently wasted the best years of his youth acquiring 
 an education that seems utterly useless when he tries to 
 earn five pounds with a prostituted pen. 
 
 And this was the case of Eric Trevanion, who now for the 
 first time realized that heretofore, to him, apocryphal con- 
 dition, of being " hard up " ; who learnt to climb upon the 
 knife-board of a Kensington omnibus in lieu of waving his 
 umbrella at the passing hansom ; to spend hours in the 
 dingy book-shops of Holywell Street, instead of sending a 
 peremptory order to Quaritch or Bumpas ; to cast an inter- 
 ested glance at the prices marked on the goods in a grocer's 
 window, instead of sauntering into the antique silver shops 
 in Hanway Passage to see if there was anything he could 
 buy. And Eric felt it all keenly, all the more so when he 
 found himself returning a compulsatory negative to postu- 
 lants who had always found him hitherto "good for a fiver," 
 under the euphemism of a loan. And with it all he became 
 more and more of a recluse, more irritable with the Princess, 
 when she would suggest subjects to him which he considered 
 beneath his dignity as a scholar to discuss in print, and 
 more sensitive than ever when she would make any remark 
 that seemed tinged with an inquiry on the question of 
 finance. 
 
 And Daphne felt it more keenly still. She used to scheme 
 to lighten his worries in a score of ways, whose principal 
 difficulty lay in that of their concealment. Thus, one day 
 she said to him suddenly, " By the way, Eric what rent do 
 you pay opposite ? " 
 
 And when he told her, she replied, "That's just like you ! 
 you're the most casually extravagant creature I ever knew. 
 Why, So-and-so, who has the corresponding rooms in the 
 next house, only pays a third of that sum. I shall have a 
 talk to your landlady about it." 
 
 And Eric, who stood in some awe of the said enchantress, 
 whom he constantly feared he would some day be compelled 
 to ask to wait for her rent, replied grimly :
 
 l6o THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " Well, don't let me rob that person of the pleasure of a 
 conversation with you." 
 
 " And you know," continued the Princess, " the bachelor- 
 man is the natural prey of the London washerwoman. I 
 shall send Clyde over to you for your clothes every week, and 
 you must pay me. I will not have you robbed all round as 
 you are now." 
 
 And to Eric's astonishment, a few days later, his whilome 
 terrible landvvoman informed him that, as she heard that 
 he contemplated moving next door, she would be glad to 
 have him stay, and pay the next door rent, which was, in 
 fact, one-third of what he had hitherto been paying. About 
 this time also Daphne grew captious about dining with him 
 in town, preferring vastly to have him come and picnic with 
 her in the studio ; or anon she would burst in upon him in 
 his own rooms, carrying the complete outfit of dinner in a 
 basket, and exclaiming : 
 
 "Eric ! I'm bored, and tired of my old studio ; I've come 
 to picnic with you here's my share ; what have you got ? " 
 and then she would ransack his cupboard in search of potted 
 comestibles and other trifles which she knew Eric kept " on 
 the farm." And she did it all so charmingly, that Eric 
 never dreamt that she had any motive ulterior to her own 
 amusement, or that " the rent next door " was precisely the 
 same as what he had always paid. 
 
 It was on one of these occasions, when she had descended 
 upon him, the bearer of more than ordinarily good cheer, 
 that she said at the conclusion of the meal, when they had 
 drawn their chairs to the fire, which was now almost ren- 
 dered unnecessary by the advancing spring : 
 
 " Do you know, boy, I've got a scheme for you. I was 
 sitting the other day at a dinner-party next to a provincial 
 journalist, and he told me all about an undertaking that 
 made me think at once of you. He is the editor of a big 
 concern in a big midland city, and is starting a magazine to 
 be written by London journalists. They are going to pay 
 very well two pounds a page because all the articles are
 
 CLOUDS. l6l 
 
 to be strictly anonymous, so anonymous, in fact, that not 
 even the contributors are to know the name of the magazine, 
 or where it's to be published. The articles are to go to 
 him, and he sends a cheque on receipt of the corrected 
 proofs. Well, I offered at once to write for him, and he 
 jumped at the offer. Now, I can't write, but you can, and as 
 we're very poor we must pocket our pride. You shall write 
 the articles, and I'll put in a touch here and there. I 
 promise not to alter what you write, and when he sends me 
 the cheques I shall claim twenty-five per cent, for my share 
 of the work, and as negotiation fee. You mustn't ask any 
 questions about it, because I swore I wouldn't betray him 
 will you go into it with me ? " 
 
 " My dear girl," answered Eric, " I'll do anything that'll 
 make money. I've come down to that. What do you want 
 for a start ? " 
 
 " Oh, dish up any of your old impossible stuff a little, and 
 hand it over. I'll see that it gets in all right." 
 
 And so Eric set to work again. The Princess was as 
 good as her word, and hardly "garbled" his manuscript at 
 all, and he returned his first set of proofs, feeling that at 
 last the tide had turned a little. For a space the cheques 
 came in with cheerful regularity and liberality, and Eric and 
 the Princess used to laugh together over what he used to 
 call " The Mysterious Magazine," which they used sapiently 
 to agree could never pay its proprietors, so absolutely in ad- 
 vance of the merits of the " copy " was the price they paid 
 for it. And for a couple of months Eric seemed to be in a 
 position to laugh at his former troubles, especially as not 
 only did he make a good thing by writing Daphne's articles 
 for her, but also the editor of a leading weekly had betrayed 
 a disposition to accept, publish, and pay for a few articles of 
 which Eric declared himself heartily ashamed, but which 
 necessity made him sink his personal feelings and write. 
 
 At the end of that time he sat one day in the Princess' 
 studio finishing an article for her, and scribbling some letters, 
 when he found that he had not an envelope left in his
 
 l62 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 pigeon-holes. He rose and went over to Daphne's table to 
 find one, and -not seeing any in the place where she usually 
 kept them, tried to find, without troubling her, the reserve 
 stock. In pursuance of his quest, he opened a drawer in 
 whose lock the key stood invitingly, and the first thing that 
 met his eye was the whole set of his articles for " The Mys- 
 terious Magazine," the corrected proof of each neatly folded 
 up with the manuscript. A horrible, sickening sensation 
 took possession of him as he took them out and verified 
 them, and, white to the lips as the ghastly truth flashed 
 across him, he rose and, presenting them to Daphne as she 
 sat at her easel, which had hidden him from her as he stood 
 at her table, said, in a deadly, quiet voice : 
 
 " Daphne, what is the meaning of this ? " 
 
 Her face was scarcely less white, her eyes scarcely less 
 troubled and dry than his, as she made answer to him : 
 
 " Oh, Eric ! where did you get those from ? " 
 
 " I was looking for an envelope ; there was none in your 
 case ; I opened the top drawer, and the first thing that 
 caught my eye was this packet. Well answer me what 
 have you to say ? " 
 
 She kept silence, looking dumbly at the bundle, and he 
 continued : 
 
 " Does the magazine of which you have spoken exist ? 
 Did you ever meet such a man as you described the editor 
 to be ? In God's name, Daphne, answer me, or I shall go 
 mad!" 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed forth 
 her answer: 
 
 " Oh, Eric, my love, forgive me forgive me ! I can say 
 nothing, only that I loved you, and it made my heart ache to 
 see you so poor to see you suffer so. I knew that some 
 day, when you had made a name, they would be valuable, 
 and anyone would be only too glad to take them from me 
 for you. I was only buying them in advance it was an 
 investment, Eric." 
 
 For answer he flung the packet at her feet, and strode
 
 CLOUDS. 163 
 
 from her presence. When he returned twenty minutes later, 
 his eyes flaming with passion, she was sitting in the same 
 position, her brushes lying with the manuscripts at her feet. 
 
 "So," he began, "you have lied to me from the begin- 
 ning, and you have cheated me into living on your charity. 
 I did not ask your alms I refused them, as I refuse them 
 now. My God ! how can I have been so blind ? You 
 thought that that wretched woman over the way would keep 
 your secret well, so she might have done had I not by 
 good luck chanced upon these papers. I trust you are satis- 
 fied with the success of your scheme. Egad ! it was well 
 contrived very well contrived. How dared you insult me 
 so ? do you hear me ? how dared you ? " 
 
 She had sunk upon her knees before him she, the proud 
 Princess Daphne of a few short months ago her face hid- 
 den in her hands. 
 
 "Don't speak to me like that, Eric I can't bear it you 
 are killing me. It was for the best it was for the best 1 
 loved I love you so ! Ah ! won't you forgive me, dear ? " 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 She rose slowly to her feet and staggered to the hearth. 
 There her forces left her, and she flung herself on the 
 lounge in an agony of tears. And Eric Trevanion, his face 
 deathly pale, his brows contracted as if with physical pain, 
 stood looking at her. 
 
 And as he stood, no sound breaking the silence but her 
 sobs, amid the hideous humiliation of it all there came 
 over him the realization of how great a love was this of hers 
 for him. Few men can withstand tears, if they are genuine, 
 and well from a breaking heart ; so at last he drew nearer 
 to her, and kneeling by her side, put his arms about her 
 prostrate body. As she felt them, she turned and flung hers 
 round his neck, burying her head upon his shoulder. 
 
 "Come, Daph," he said, at last; "don't be so unhappy 
 about it. I know it was only your true, loving heart that 
 made you do as you did. It is I who should beg for forgive- 
 ness, and I beg for it here on my knees. I spoke harshly,
 
 164 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 cruelly, just now I had no right to do so. You can under- 
 stand my feelings a little, can't you ? I know yours, and I 
 forgive you the moment's worry you caused me forgive you 
 from my soul." 
 
 And so, little by little, her sobs became more intermittent, 
 and at last ceased entirely, as, lying in his arms, she raised 
 her beautiful eyes to his and he kissed away from them the 
 last tears that trembled on her lashes. 
 
 When they were both comparatively themselves again, 
 they fell to talking naturally ; and when at last he saw that 
 she had quite recovered from her paroxysm, he rang the bell, 
 and Clytie brought in tea and lit the gas. Her sharp 
 eyes saw that the Princess had been weeping, and she lev- 
 elled at Eric a look of undisguised hatred, which, however, 
 he scarcely noticed, though, unreasonably, he felt this after- 
 noon more than usually inclined to reciprocate her aver- 
 sion. 
 
 When she was gone, and they had settled themselves com- 
 fortably, he said : 
 
 " Now, Daph, let's talk business. " 
 
 " Yes, Eric, " she exclaimed, eagerly, " that's what I want 
 you to do. I knew that you'd never consent to accept this 
 money from me and see I have kept an exact account of 
 everything I have spent for you. It has been nothing to me, 
 for you know I am quite well off. Very soon you too will 
 be rich and prosperous, and then, never fear " this with a 
 little laugh " I'll exact it from you to the uttermost far- 
 thing I promise you I will." 
 
 And so they calmly discussed the question and their 
 mutual arrangements for the future. The past was irremedi- 
 able, the money was spent that she had given him, and with 
 her sweet casuistry he came almost to look upon her future 
 loans as not so shameful after all, for he felt within himself 
 that his present poverty must soon come to an end. 
 
 They were thus employed when, suddenly, a distant report 
 shook the studio, and some fragments, apparently of glass, 
 fell upon the skylight in the roof.
 
 CLOUDS. 165 
 
 " Great heavens ! what's that ? " exclaimed Eric. 
 
 " Goodness knows, " returned the Princess, anxiously ; 
 " what do you think it is ? " 
 
 "There has been an explosion somewhere let's hope 
 it's only the boiler of some conservatory or other, I tell 
 you what I'll run out and see if it was in Holland Street." 
 And he disappeared. 
 
 In ten minutes he returned, looking very grave. 
 
 " Oh ! what is it, Eric ? " cried the Princess. 
 
 " It was an explosion of gas, dear and I'm sorry to say 
 it was in Gabriel Hawleigh's studio. It had got turned 
 on somehow, and when he went to light it, it exploded, blow- 
 ing the whole of the skylight out." 
 
 " And Gabriel ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid he is terribly hurt. Fortunately there was no 
 one else in the studio at the time."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 YES ! Paul du Peyral lay dying. 
 
 So said the doctor for whom, in an agony of terror and 
 grief, the distraught Mahmoure had sent Paul's body-ser- 
 vant. He might live, said the doctor, for hours, or for days, 
 but most probably it would be a question of the former : it 
 was the beginning of the end ; and after having made the 
 most thorough examination possible, the medico was forced 
 to admit that he was absolutely and completely baffled by 
 the nature of the disease which showed such alarming symp- 
 toms. 
 
 Mahmoure, being questioned, gave the fullest possible par- 
 ticulars of Paul's habits of life which were regularity itself. 
 She told all she knew of his studies, of his scientific and 
 psychological pursuits ; and concerning these latter the doc- 
 tor made especially minute and interested inquiries. At 
 last his examination during which Paul had lain in a state 
 of semi-consciousness ended, and the doctor rose and took 
 his leave, saying to Mahmoure' as he went : 
 
 " The case to which you have summoned me, madam, is 
 one which appears to be unique in my professional experi- 
 ence, and which cannot be dealt with by any form of patholog- 
 ical treatment that is familiar to me. I am not, however, of 
 that class of physicians who will gladly see a patient die 
 rather than yield a point of etiquette, and meet in consultation 
 a doctor of the Eclectic school. If I may be allowed to sug- 
 gest I would ask you to send for Doctor Schuyler Van 
 Boomkamp, a young practitioner whose specialitf is psycholog- 
 ical complaints, and who has made a profound study of them 
 in Paris, Berlin, and Leyden, from which latter school he is 
 
 1 66
 
 TRANSMIGRA TION. 1 67 
 
 a graduate. If you will beg his attendance here at three 
 o'clock, by that time Mr. du Peyral will most probably have 
 regained consciousness, and I will be here soon after that 
 hour to consult with Dr. Van Boomkamp." 
 
 During the day, as the doctor had predicted, Paul recov- 
 ered consciousness, though his weakness was so great as 
 to be almost paralysis, and noiselessly Mahmoure' came and 
 went in his room, ministering to his wants, and rewarded 
 now and then with a few half-articulated words of thanks. 
 The thought of what she had originally come about never 
 once entered her head, nor did it until she was reminded 
 thereof in her conversation, that same afternoon, with Dr. 
 Van Boomkamp. As he is a not altogether unimportant ac- 
 tor in the development and conclusion of this drama, a word 
 about him may not be out of place. 
 
 Schuyler Van Boomkamp was a man of thirty-two, tall, but 
 with a pensive stoop in his shoulders, and a grave incli- 
 nation of the head forward and sideways, that was habitual, 
 a smooth-shaven face, and hair of an uncertain colour that 
 had become slightly touched with white, eyes rather deeply 
 set and of an intense steel-gray, a clearly cut nose and thin 
 lips, his whole personality completed by a pair of icy-cold, 
 long, white hands, with beautifully formed nails, and a pair 
 of equally icy-cold pince-nez, from behind whose gold rims 
 the steely eyes literally froze the prevarication ere it gushed 
 from the fountain of the brain. He always dressed exqui- 
 sitely, but invariably in the fashion of a few years ago ; and 
 to-day, when Mahmoure was summoned from Paul's bed- 
 room to speak with him in the study before he saw the pa- 
 tient, she realized, the moment she saw him, as he courteously 
 handed her a chair, and in smiling showed her a set of teeth 
 as fine and white as a woman's, that she was in the presence 
 of a man who, like Paul, was the unique specimen of his 
 kind. 
 
 After giving him the same general particulars as she had 
 given to Paul's own doctor, Schuyler Van Boomkamp asked 
 her question after question concerning the mesmeric phe-
 
 l68 THE PK INC ESS DAPHNE. 
 
 nomena in which she had been the percipient, investigating 
 them with a minuteness that almost appalled Mahmoure, 
 and examining into causes, agencies, and effects in a manner 
 that might almost have made her fancy he had been present 
 at their seances. As he concluded his examination of 
 which he had taken copious notes a ring at the bell and 
 a step in the parlour announced the arrival of the senior 
 medico. Mahmoure was about to summon him, when Dr. 
 Van Boomkamp, arresting her with a gesture, said quietly : 
 
 " There is one final question that I must ask you, Madame 
 di Zulueta on what day were you married to Mr. du 
 Peyral ? " 
 
 " Dr. Van Boomkamp ! " She had turned and faced him, 
 her eyes stricken wide with apprehension. 
 
 " Do not be distressed, madame, I beg of you ; and I 
 assure you, though the assurance is hardly necessary, 
 that the information will rest as profoundly confidential as 
 the rest of our conversation. Of course I know that you 
 are legally married to our patient ; you have told me so un- 
 consciously fifty times this afternoon ; but it is important 
 that I should know the exact date." 
 
 " On the 25th of September, last year, in the village of 
 Niagara, Ontario, Canada." 
 
 She made the answer almost mechanically, under the spell 
 of those terrible eyes. Schuyler Van Boomkamp made a 
 last note on his carnet, and joining his confrere, the three 
 entered Paul's bed-room together. 
 
 Paul lay propped up by pillows, very weak, hardly able to 
 articulate a word, but yet conscious, and the moment Dr. 
 Schuyler Van Boomkamp entered the room he fixed his 
 eyes upon that gentleman, never letting his gaze wander for 
 a moment. After verifying the diagnosis of his older col- 
 league, Van Boomkamp said to the dying man, in a low but 
 deadly distinct voice : 
 
 " I am about to ask you some questions ; can you concen- 
 trate your mind upon the answers ? " 
 
 An inarticulate whisper broke from the patient, in which
 
 TRANSMIGRATION. 169 
 
 the words " understand " " too weak " were alone recog- 
 nizable. 
 
 " Madame di Zulueta," said the doctor, " I must ask you 
 to restore temporarily a portion of the vitality you have un- 
 consciously drawn from our friend here. Kindly take your 
 seat close to the head of the bed here. So thank you. 
 Now place the tips of your fingers under the patient's head, 
 so that they lie along the spinal column at the point where it 
 leaves the brain. So good ! Kindly make an effort of will 
 to transfer some of your very abundant vitality to him. Mr. 
 du Peyral, you are feeling stronger can you answer my 
 questions now ? " 
 
 A flicker of light returned to his dull eyes, an infinitesimal 
 tinge to his hollow cheeks, as he replied in a weak but per- 
 fectly distinct voice : 
 
 " Certainly, doctor." 
 
 The older and more orthodox physician sat petrified with 
 amazement, but watching the proceedings of his young 
 colleague with fascinated interest. Then the examination 
 began. 
 
 " Are you in pain ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Do you feel in any way light-headed ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Are you in full possession of all your mental functions ? " 
 
 " Yes in a way." 
 
 " You mean that your brain works with its usual clear- 
 ness, but without its wonted rapidity ? " 
 ' " Exactly." 
 
 " Have you ever had an attack of this kind before ? " 
 
 "Once only." 
 
 " And that, I presume, was immediately after some more 
 than ordinarily violent effort to compass some psychological 
 end ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " What was its nature ? "
 
 I/O THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " I had summoned to my mind a picture of the subject 
 upon whom I have been making my experiments in Europe." 
 
 " Ah ! and you saw her ? " 
 
 " That was my impression." 
 
 " To return to your present condition : there is apparently 
 no alteration in your physical condition ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " No loss of weight ? " 
 
 " Not an ounce." 
 
 " No emaciation no loss of muscle ? " 
 
 "None whatever." 
 
 " Raise your leg in bed." 
 
 " I cannot." 
 
 " Raise your arm above your head." 
 . " I cannot." 
 
 " Ah ! Kindly remove your ringers from his neck, 
 Madame." Mahmoure did so. 
 
 " Now tell me, what are your sensations ? " 
 
 A contraction pa'ssed over his features, but though his 
 lips moved, no sound came from them. 
 
 " Be so good as to replace your hands, madame. So 
 thank you. Now take a deep breath, put your lips to his, 
 and breathe softly, so as to fill his lungs if possible with 
 your own atmosphere." 
 
 Mahmoure did so, and a strong shudder shook the dying 
 man. 
 
 " Doctor," he said, " do not let her do that again she 
 cannot bear it. I know that it must be my life or hers ; let 
 it be mine my work is ended. But I know yours, doctor, 
 and I beg you, if you will, to take up mine where I have left 
 it." As he said these words his voice had almost regained 
 its natural strength, and at the conclusion of his sentence the 
 muscles of his face relaxed once more, and he sank still 
 deeper among the pillows that supported him. 
 
 "That will do, madame" said Van Boomkamp, rising. 
 " We cannot arrest the end ; it must come in a short time 
 now, probably in a few hours. You wish to remain with
 
 TRANSMIGRA TION. 1 7 1 
 
 him, I presume ? Pray do so, but do not touch him more 
 than you can help ; the excitement will be too great for him. 
 Now, doctor," continued he, turning to the older man, " I 
 shall be glad of a few minutes conversation with you." And 
 he led the way into the study, closing the doors behind them 
 carefully. 
 
 " What is your opinion on this case, sir ? " he began, when 
 they had seated themselves. 
 
 " Dr. Van Boomkamp," returned the other, " when I di- 
 agnosed the condition of our patient this morning, I am 
 proud to say that I found that my experience and medical 
 skill were wide enough to tell me that I was completely 
 baffled. As you see yourself, there is no tendency to a dis- 
 eased condition of the heart, liver, lungs, spine, or brain ; it 
 is not nervous fever ; it is not hypochondria or lymphoma- 
 nia. If disease is here, it is a disease of the life, of the 
 soul ; and at the amphitheatres of anatomy, a life, a soul, 
 has yet to be dissected we know nothing of it. Though, 
 therefore, the name of Schuyler Van Boomkamp is one that 
 causes the orthodox faculty to look somewhat askant (as you 
 know), your fame as a psychologist has reached me from 
 sources that I respect in Paris and Berlin, and especially 
 from the more esoteric schools of Leyden University. I 
 therefore counselled Madame di Zulueta, who takes an inter- 
 est in this young man that we can perhaps understand,- to 
 consult you, and having assisted at your examination I can 
 only say that I am proud to meet you in consultation on a 
 case which, I frankly confess, is beyond the range of my 
 orthodox and perhaps old-fashioned experience and studies." 
 
 At the conclusion of this exordium Schuyler Van Boom- 
 kamp bowed respectfully, though without rising, to his sen- 
 ior colleague, and then, removing his glasses, he wiped them 
 thoughtfully and readjusted them. Then he made answer 
 in the slow, measured terms of one who is stating a collec- 
 tion of carefully ascertained and determined facts. 
 
 " Sir, I have not been in the habit, as you know, of encoun- 
 tering this frankness in my consultations with the faculty,
 
 1 72 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 or rather that branch thereof which you represent. I will 
 answer you with equal frankness, and I hope lucidity, 
 strange as must appear to you my unalterable convictions 
 on the nature of this case. 
 
 " We have here a man of very rare and very highly de- 
 veloped psychological powers, whose name is about to be 
 appended to the already almost interminable roll-call of the 
 martyrs to science. 
 
 " He is bound by ties, earthly as well as spiritual, to the 
 very highly magnetic woman who is with him at this mo- 
 ment, and through her he has become connected in a man- 
 ner, mysterious to the ordinary mind, with another woman, 
 who, though a thousand leagues distant from him, is proba- 
 bly also connected with him by some half-forgotten tie of 
 blood, and is certainly connected with him by the bond of 
 a coincidence of personality which strikes even myself as 
 being almost miraculous. Madame di Zulueta is an extra- 
 ordinarily receptive woman, and when first their liaison 
 let us call it that for the sake of definition commenced, 
 she was at the lowest ebb of vitality, physically and psycho- 
 logically. The absolute regularity of his life has left his 
 physical constitution unimpaired, but by dint of continually 
 hypnotizing his companion, he has gradually transferred his 
 vitality to her, and it is practically with his soul, with his 
 vital force, that she is living now, has regained her health, 
 her strength, almost her youth. But of this vitality which 
 he has poured into her, only the grosser atoms have re- 
 mained as fuel for the machine of her life ; the more ethe- 
 real, the more subtile portion he has transferred, through her, 
 to this woman on the other side of the ocean, by name, it 
 appears, Daphne Pre'ault. 
 
 " Your diagnosis of his condition is of course " and he 
 bowed again " pathologically, scientifically correct, but the 
 vital condition in which he finds himself at this moment is 
 this. Pray follow me very carefully. His magnificent and 
 unimpaired physique requires a commensurate strength of 
 vitality, of soul, to support it in the condition known to us as
 
 TRA NSMIGRA TIOiV. 1 7 3 
 
 ' Life.' That soul he has gradually transferred, until what 
 is left of it is insufficient to maintain the ' life ' in so pow- 
 erful a physical machine. If his body had weakened with 
 his soul, he would undoubtedly have continued to live, though 
 upon a lower plane of vitality ; but it has not done so, and 
 now the remaining vestiges of soul are about to leave him, 
 and produce, in a perfectly healthy body, the phenomenon 
 known to us as ' Death.' The problem which is about to be 
 solved before our eyes is this : into which of these living 
 personalities will the final transference take place ? It 
 may be into that of Madame di Zulueta, but I hope not, for 
 she is not physically strong enough to bear the burden, and 
 it would probably result in some form of mental aberration 
 with her. I am inclined to expect that it will be the body of 
 Miss Daphne Preault that the residue of his soul will seek. 
 You doubtless think that I am expecting a kind of metempsy- 
 chosis, a kind of reincarnation such as formed the basis of 
 the Pythagorean philosophy well, in a measure, I am. I 
 have once seen such a phenomenon take place in a little vil- 
 lage in Poland ; we are about to witness its repetition, and, 
 in the interests of psychology, we may congratulate ourselves 
 on our almost unique experience." 
 
 He ceased speaking, and for a few moments the elder 
 man kept silence. At the expiration of those moments he 
 rose and said : 
 
 " Dr. Van Boomkamp, the theory you have expounded to 
 me is so unexpected, so marvellous, that I am absolutely un- 
 able to give an opinion in exchange for yours. Excepting 
 as an observer and' as a deeply interested one, believe me 
 I have nothing more to do with this case ; I see that I 
 cannot arrest the finger of death, and I leave our patient 
 in your hands, for though against my will and judgment 
 I am bound to confess that you have laid before me an 
 aspect of the case which, extraordinary though it be, I am 
 not in a position to controvert. When do you expect that 
 death will supervene ? " 
 
 " In about four hours."
 
 174 
 
 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " You will be here ? " 
 
 " Certainly and you ? " 
 
 " With your permission yes." 
 
 " Good ! we will meet here then at about half-past seven." 
 
 And, leaving a message to that effect for Mahmoure, the 
 two physicians left the house. 
 
 When they returned, at the time agreed upon between 
 them, she was sitting where they had left her, at the foot of 
 the bed where Paul du Peyral lay, also as they had left him, 
 half-conscious, and apparently paralyzed. His pulse was 
 thin, hard, tense, and rapid, and as Schuyler Van Boom- 
 kamp replaced his hand upon the bed, he looked significantly 
 at his companion and said : 
 
 " It is a matter of minutes." 
 
 Mahmoure' buried her head in her hands, and for the first 
 time burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 The two men took their seats by the bed in silence, the 
 younger making rapid notes in his memorandum-book. 
 
 The profound silence of the room was only broken at in- 
 tervals by a convulsive sob from the woman, and Van Boom- 
 kamp shaded the lamp more carefully to make the twilight 
 complete. Suddenly the dying man moved, and all three 
 riveted their attention even more closely upon him. 
 
 His lips moved, and a sound escaped them, the purport 
 of which the listeners could not catch. Then, suddenly, half 
 rising into a sitting posture, his eyes opened wide, a flush 
 of colour mounted to his cheeks and as instantaneously died 
 away again, as he stretched his arms before him, and crying, 
 in a grand, ringing voice, " Daphne ! Daphne ! " he fell 
 back upon the bed. They turned in the direction his eyes 
 had taken, and Mahmoure cried out in terror : 
 
 " There ! there ! do you not see her ? " 
 
 "Who? Where?" 
 
 " Daphne Daphne Preault," she murmured, and then 
 added, as she covered her face once more, " Ah ! she is 
 gone." 
 
 Van Boomkamp took Paul's wrist for a moment, put his
 
 TRANSMIGRA TIOX. 1 7 5 
 
 ear to his mouth, and then placed his hand upon his heart. 
 He glanced at the older physician, and then, laying his 
 hand on Mahmoure's shoulder, he said softly : 
 
 " It is over he is gone." 
 
 " Dead ! Oh, God ! " she cried, " and his last thoughts 
 were of her. Oh ! Paul, Paul ! " and she buried her head 
 
 upon the dead man's breast. 
 
 ******* 
 
 During the four days that elapsed between the death of 
 Paul du Peyral and his funeral, Mahmoure never left her 
 husband's body, refusing to see anyone, to be comforted, 
 almost to sustain life, and would not arouse herself from her 
 apathy to gratify the curiosity which the circumstances of 
 Paul's death had excited. 
 
 New York rang with it for at least three days. The sud- 
 den death of the man who had been such a problem in 
 society, the sudden appearance on the scene of a wife, the 
 stories of the colossal fortune Paul had tortiously enjoyed by 
 concealing the marriage which had taken place, said the gos- 
 sips, immediately on the death of hlsjfrst wife ten years ago, 
 all were weirdly interesting, and formed the staple subject 
 of conversations at dinner-parties, germans, the opera, in 
 church, and in other places where the School for Scandal of 
 New York meet to paint their neighbours the deepest pos- 
 sible black, in the hope that its own members will look a 
 shade grayer by comparison. Miss Parthenia Van Baulk'em 
 looked upon it as a visitation of Providence, a direct inter- 
 position of Divine power in her favour, and almost took to 
 herself the credit of having killed the man who had dared to 
 form a true opinion of her tinsel troubadour. And when 
 Mahmoure' du Peyral, as she was now called, refused to 
 place herself on exhibition, and give particulars on the sub- 
 ject of Paul for a small fee, popular indignation reached its 
 zenith ; and, from the altitude of Fifth Avenue, descended 
 with full force on her unconscious but beautiful head. 
 
 She denied herself peremptorily to all save Schuyler Van 
 Boomkamp and Paul's man of business, and in the set-
 
 1 76 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 demerit of his estate the latter gentleman had his hands full. 
 It was a complicated affair. Paul had saved money, and 
 had bequeathed everything to his wife ; but the difficulty lay 
 in separating from the property that was undeniably his, 
 that portion of the proceeds of the Pre"ault estate that had 
 fallen to his lot since his marriage with M.ahmoure. Repre- 
 senting, by way of amateur " amicus curice " or " guardian 
 ad litem " in the interests of social justice, Mr. Charles 
 Sturton-Baker, and so, indirectly through Eric, the Princess 
 Daphne, Mr. Murray Hill, with the assistance of Messrs. 
 Seligman, Searcher, & Certiorari, was making himself very 
 officiously offensive ; and as his reception by Mahmoure du 
 Peyral was a matter not to be thought of for a moment, he 
 was thrown back on the congenial companionship of Parthe- 
 nia Van Baulk'em, who was making her arrangements to 
 spend the season in Europe, where she fondly imagined she 
 would find "her young man" in society, and whither Mr. 
 Murray Hill felt anxious that she should go in the capacity 
 of his fiancee, though he still kept up the fiction that it was 
 entirely "for her and Mr. Baker" that he had started roll- 
 ing the nucleus of the snow-ball of worry that was weighing 
 upon the mind of the erstwhile desired Mahmoure'. 
 
 The last instructions that the solicitors of the Preault 
 estate had received, had been to extract to the last cent 
 from the estate of Paul du Peyral the proportion of income 
 that had been received by him since his marriage with 
 Madame du Peyral ; and Mr. Murray Hill, smarting under 
 the memory of Mahmoure's contemptuous rejection of him 
 and of Paul's argumentum ad caudam, not to mention the 
 encouragement that twinkled from Miss Parthenia's reddish 
 eyes, had started a wild rumour that Paul had been secretly 
 married before this marriage with Madame du Peyral in- 
 deed, there were people who thought that he went through 
 the marriage ceremony clandestinely with someone about 
 once a week and filing affidavits, managed to tie up the 
 whole estate for months prospectively, and to put Mahmoure
 
 TRANSMIGRATION. 1 77 
 
 into what was practically, for her, a position of considerable 
 embarrassment. 
 
 Through all her troubles she had one staunch and true 
 friend, a friend who had come accidentally to her side, and 
 who had made a complete study of her case, legally, per- 
 sonally, mentally,, and physically. That friend was Dr. 
 Schuyler Van Boomkamp. 
 
 After the funeral of Paul du Peyral he had come to her 
 and said : 
 
 " Madame du Peyral, I have taken the liberty of enquir- 
 ing somewhat into the circumstances of the case which has 
 been preying on your mind since the sharper anguish of 
 your husband's death has been softened. You will naturally 
 want a friend to represent you in many matters that a 
 woman cannot well manage alone. I offer myself as that 
 friend, at the same time as I offer myself as a physician." 
 
 " As a friend, Dr. Van Boomkamp," she had replied, " I 
 accept your offer gladly, and as frankly as it is made, and I 
 know what I have to thank you for when I see the columris 
 and paragraphs about me in the papers ; but regarding you 
 as a physician, I hope I can decline your offer, for, now that 
 I am rallying a little, I find myself returning to the health I 
 enjoyed before my husband's death." 
 
 "Exactly," replied Van Boomkamp; "but you must be 
 careful. Your health is a very curious problem, even to 
 me ; you live practically by means of a transmitted vitality, 
 a vitality that excessive excitement would seriously impair, 
 and that must therefore be very carefully nurtured. You do 
 not allow the newspapers to worry you, I trust ; I fear the 
 case of the ' Preault-du Peyral ' estate is going to become a 
 cause celebre" 
 
 " Oh ! I don't mind them, Dr. Van Boomkamp. You see, 
 I have no friends in New York to speak of. The imagina- 
 tive efforts of American journalists seldom, I think, worry 
 their objects. They can never be more than weapons in the 
 hands of one's enemies wherewith to annoy one's friends. 
 I have enemies, for some mysterious reason, it seems ; but 
 
 12
 
 1/8 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 I have no friends to whom they can send clippings from the 
 morning papers day after day, as is, I believe, the custom 
 over here." 
 
 " Well that's good ! I shall look in periodically to see 
 how you are getting along, and whenever I hear anything 
 that in my judgment you should know, you shall know it. 
 At present it seems as if all that has to be done is a sub- 
 traction from Mr. du Peyral's residuary estate of the income 
 paid to him since last September, so that in a few weeks you 
 will have nothing more to worry you in any way whatever. 
 What are your plans ? " 
 
 " I am going home," she said, a far-off look stealing into 
 her great brown eyes. 
 
 And then, seeing that the doctor maintained silence, as if 
 waiting for an explanation, she added, 
 
 " To Greece, you know ; that is where my people origi- 
 nally came from; we have always called it 'home.' My 
 village lies between Pyrgos and Corinth, on the Gulf of 
 Lepanto. I shall buy a villa near the old place, and die 
 forgotten under the same skies that looked down upon the 
 hardy men of Argolis, my forefathers, when they gave up 
 their lives for the freedom of the Peloponnesus." 
 
 " Your resolution, madam, is an excellent one," returned 
 Van Boomkamp, gravely ; " the climate of the Morea is the 
 one that will give you the completest rest" he had been 
 about to say " the longest life," but he changed the expres- 
 sion for fear of alarming her. 
 
 To the young eclectic physician, Mahmoure was a study 
 of intense interest ; living, as she did, at second-hand, as it 
 were, everything depended upon her remaining in a quiet 
 frame of mind. Under those circumstances she might live 
 to be an old woman ; but should any unforeseen occurrence 
 make too heavy a draft upon her precarious vitality, he had 
 grave fears for her reason, if not for her life. When, there- 
 fore, the new complication arose the throwing of the whole 
 estate into Chancery, or its American equivalent, for the 
 purpose of making enquiries and he saw that not only
 
 TRANSMIGRA TION. 1 79 
 
 might Mahmoure be put to inconvenience and expense for 
 many months, but she might be even seriously embarrassed 
 by a course of action o'f whose effects he felt certain that 
 Daphne Pre'ault, the person principally concerned, was in 
 ignorance, he came to Mahmoure one day, and finding 
 her nervous, irritable, worried, he made to her a proposition 
 which was sound on the face of it. 
 
 "You can do no good," he said, "by remaining here. 
 The atmosphere of antagonism that surrounds you is bad ; 
 besides, the hot weather is at hand, and you must leave the 
 city anyhow. Why not go to Europe ? to London, en route 
 for Greece ? Your affairs do not in any way require your 
 presence here ; you can safely leave them in the hands of 
 your attorney, whom I have ascertained to be a man of 
 absolutely unimpeachable rectitude. By such a course 
 many objects would be served : in the first place, you will 
 obtain the change of air and scene in great need of which 
 you stand at present ; in the second, you will see, if you like, 
 Miss Daphne Preault, and doubtless come to some under- 
 standing with her which will be to your mutual advantage ; 
 in the third, you will be nearer your ultimate destination, 
 and the rest in London will serve the double purpose of 
 shortening a journey that might overtax your strength, and 
 of enabling you to complete many arrangements before you 
 proceed to the Peloponnese. I may add, that I have my- 
 self accepted an invitation to proceed at once to Paris to 
 assist Dr. Charcot in certain observations important to men- 
 tal science which he is making at the Salpetriere. I shall 
 stay in London for some weeks before crossing the channel, 
 and shall therefore be able to keep an eye on you, on your 
 health, and on your business, with a beneficial result to all 
 three. Think it over." 
 
 Mahmoure du Peyral thought it over, with the result that, 
 the next time Schuyler Van Boomkamp called upon her, her 
 mind was made up, and her arrangements were completed ; 
 and a fortnight later the passenger-list of the Royal Mail 
 Steamer Anatolia contained the names of Schuyler Van
 
 1 8O THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 Boomkamp and Madame du Peyral ; and a grave, ascetic- 
 looking man with steel-gray eyes and gold pince-nez might 
 have been seen pacing her decks as she ploughed across the 
 Atlantic in proper " Cunarder " style, in the company of a 
 woman, small but exquisitely made, with an oval, oriental 
 face, great, soft brown eyes, and a mass of tawny hair, with 
 which the north-west wind seemed to love to play for very 
 wantonness, to display its glossy beauties to the gulls and 
 petrels.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE REINCARNATION OF DAPHNE. 
 
 "WELL, and what does Critchett say?" 
 
 " Hardly anything ; he says that by a miracle there might 
 be enough of the optic nerve left on which to form the basis 
 of a hope that, when the inflammation has gone down, sight 
 may be partially restored." 
 
 "And are both eyes equally injured? " 
 
 "Yes, or apparently so." 
 
 " Poor old Gabriel ! " 
 
 " Yes, it's hard, isn't it ? just at the moment he had made 
 a name. However, let's hope for the best." 
 
 The speakers were Bernard Rawlinson and Eric Tre- 
 vanion. They had met just as Eric left the Hawleigh's house 
 at the conclusion of a visit of enquiry, about a fortnight after 
 the explosion in Gabriel's studio. A novelist is not allowed 
 by the Canons of the Cult to sympathize, himself, with his 
 heroes, but it must be conceded that a sadder tale was never 
 told than that of Gabriel Hawleigh's blindness. For an 
 artist to be blinded is certainly a tragedy of the saddest 
 sort ; but how much more sad if that artist be at the outset 
 only, of a successful career ! Here was Gabriel, however, 
 poor and in love. The moment had arrived when his 
 anxieties seemed to be at an end. Fortune, won at length 
 by his persistent wooing, had smiled upon him and extended 
 her hand, and at the moment that he stepped forth to grasp 
 it, the blow fell that shattered in an instant every hope that 
 he had built up for himself ; and, boy as he was, sitting for 
 the most part alone in his darkened room, the first threads 
 of gray began to peep among the strands of light-brown hair 
 that fell in picturesque confusion over his brows. 
 
 181
 
 1 82 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 Mrs. Hawleigh seemed as well she might crushed by 
 the blow which had fallen upon them, the culminating point 
 of all these years of struggle against poverty. For the 
 moment, fortunately, money was not lacking, for the great 
 Academy picture having been purchased by a celebrated 
 amateur for what, to Mrs. Hawleigh and Gabriel, seemed a 
 vast sum, the news of his accident spread like wildfire, and 
 it being currently reported that Dr. Critchett had declared 
 his blindness to be incurable, dealers and collectors alike 
 had contended for Gabriel's previous works, which, by the 
 advice of Sir George B , were sold by auction at Chris- 
 tie's, and brought prices such as Gabriel had never dreamed 
 of in connection with his own work; and such is the irony 
 of fate many a canvas that had been rejected by the 
 Institute, the Academy, and the Grosvenor, went for prices 
 even higher than that realized by " Sunshine in the Fog." 
 
 The fact that Sir George B bought the first picture in 
 
 the sale, and " Miss Pre'ault, the eminent lady-artist," the 
 second, may have contributed to this result ; at any rate, on 
 the Monday following the sale, Mrs. Hawleigh received a 
 cheque that relieved her mind of any anxiety as regards 
 either the proximate or immediately ultimate future. 
 
 The eminent oculist who had taken charge of the case 
 offered but one shadow of hope : as soon as he could be 
 safely removed, and could without danger be exposed to the 
 light of day, Gabriel was to be taken to a little cottage on 
 the borders of Dartmoor, almost on the boundary line which 
 divides Devonshire and Cornwall; and after a few months of 
 this quiet, pure, and invigorating atmosphere, the best or the 
 worst would be known, and Gabriel Hawleigh would know 
 irrevocably whether he might one day look again on the 
 faces and scenes he loved so well, "or whether he were 
 doomed to be led through life blind ! 
 
 And Maye ? Maye Trevethick what of her ? Ah, sirs ! 
 who shall pry into the secrets of a woman's heart ? How 
 shall I dare to say what were her thoughts as she sat in the 
 dark with her poor blind Gabriel, holding his hand in hers
 
 THE REINCARNATION OF DAPHNE. 183 
 
 in silence, or talking gently to him of their plans, of the 
 events in the colony, such as she knew them, of the rumours 
 from the world outside Holland Street which came to her 
 and which she memorized in case they might interest the boy 
 whose light had become so great a darkness. In all the 
 unwritten history of faithful women, no story is sadder than 
 hers, no devotion more heroic, no love and duty more 
 sacred : to tend Gabriel, to anticipate his needs and humour 
 his sick-man's fancies, had become her life ; and she lived 
 it, showing no trace of aught but a gentle, feminine devotion 
 to the lot that had become hers, whilst well ! who shall pry 
 into the secrets of a woman's heart ? 
 
 And so the days passed on and grew into weeks. 
 
 Of Eric Trevanion in these times some of those who had 
 eyes saw very little, whilst again some who had eyes saw 
 a good deal ! He did not mix very much with the colony 
 now ; he was poor, and, like every man who from affluence has 
 come to poverty, he felt it almost as a disgrace, and no longer 
 held his head high in the air with a merry word or a proud 
 little laugh for everyone. 
 
 The Princess Daphne watched him with a light of deep 
 anxiety in her great grave eyes, as he would sit at his desk, 
 often for hours together, crushed, as it were, beneath the 
 load of disappointment that began to take a tangible form in 
 his increasing penury. Little by little his bric-a-brac, his 
 pictures, his curios, his Eastern carpets had been sold to pay 
 the landwoman, the baker, the grocer, and other people neces- 
 sary in the scheme of even an artist's existence. And every 
 time the Princess made him accept some small loan, the 
 operation became more and more distasteful to him. He 
 had even begged the elder Trevanion to give him another 
 six months' law, but in vain. " Return here, settle down, 
 and marry a county girl," had responded the Autocrat of 
 Trthwwsthpllgg Manor, " and I'll pay your debts, and you 
 shall be a man of independent means ; but I refuse to keep 
 you, as you are living now, in opulence, luxury, and debauch- 
 ery " and Eric would look round his little retreat with a
 
 1 84 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 bitter smile, and wonder what the governor's ideas of opu- 
 lence, luxury, and debauchery were. 
 
 " Well ? " the Princess would query sometimes, after a 
 more than ordinarily protracted pause. 
 
 " Nothing capital and labour don't seem to be hitting it 
 off together in my case, Daph. An author seems to me to 
 be very like a man who has found a well of natural gas on 
 his farm, but hasn't the capital to lay down the pipes which 
 shall conduct it into the houses of the community. The 
 pipe-man is the publisher, and I haven't found one to under- 
 take my gas yet." 
 
 " But the gas exists all the same stop the flow until the 
 capitalist comes along." 
 
 " I can't ; it's too strong. At present my books are in the 
 limited edition of one manuscript copy, as Alexander the 
 Great used to insist upon Aristotle's works being produced. 
 It won't do me much good if three thousand years hence my 
 writings become as popular as his. Even the Chaldean 
 author who cut his work on the wall of a palace at Nineveh 
 had a better ' show,' in the American sense, than I ; and the 
 gentle Babylonian who wrote romances on a cylindrical seal, 
 had at least the satisfaction of knowing that a copy of his 
 book reached the world every time the owner sealed a letter. 
 It isn't good to make a living by literature, dear." 
 
 " It's better than making it by the means that so many 
 men employ, Eric. The easiest way to make a living, to my 
 mind, is by inheritance, the next is by marriage, and the 
 next is by being a bachelor all of them nice, easy occupa- 
 tions. Wait a bit, old man, and you'll coin money." 
 
 " It seems to me that if I wait a bit I shall have to and 
 take the chances of being caught at it ! I quite agree with 
 the philosopher who said, ' Poverty is no sin, but all the 
 same it's damned uncomfortable.' They talk about the 
 merry Bohemianism of a literary life. Egad, Daph ! I feel 
 about as merry as a stuffed bear with corns, put out in the 
 rain as a furrier's advertisement." 
 
 "Well, try something else promote companies like the
 
 THE RE1NCARNA TION OF DAPHNE. \ 8 5 
 
 Eastons' friend, Baker, and take the chance of imprisonment 
 for fraud as he does." 
 
 " Ah ! I think I might get up a good sporting company or 
 two. I had an uncle once a bishop who got up a joint- 
 stock concern for bringing about the fulfilment of scripture 
 prophecies. He was great on the law and the prophets, but 
 when the other directors found that he wanted to lay down 
 all the law and take up all the profits, they didn't sink the 
 capital, and consequently (paradoxical as it may seem) the 
 company didn't float. And as for the bishop ! Solomon 
 in all his fury was not enraged like one of these." 
 
 " Eric, I believe you're descending to the kind of joke 
 which is called a pun. When I said ' do as Mr. Sturton- 
 Baker does,' I meant in finance, not in vulgarity." 
 
 " I don't see why you should be so hard on Baker ; it's 
 through him and some friend of his in New York, to satisfy 
 some private grudge or other, it would seem, that we got on 
 the track of Mr. Paul du Peyral's marriage, and recovered 
 for you the fortune which is to be yours in the course of a 
 week or two." 
 
 "Well, I'm very sorry he had anything to do with it. 
 Couldn't you have got anyone else ? " 
 
 " Nobody so cheap." 
 
 " All right ! as you are the person principally concerned 
 in that money that I don't want I 
 
 "Daphne! how dare you?" cried Eric, flaming up at 
 once ; " how dare you insult me so ? True, I have the mis- 
 fortune to owe you a certain sum of money that you cheated 
 me into taking. That is no reason why you should insult 
 me by suggesting that I have any thoughts for myself in 
 watching your interests in America." 
 
 "Then why bother yourself ? /didn't ask you to." 
 
 The old dangerous light was coming into her eyes as she 
 spoke, and finally, starting to her feet, she cried, in a hard, 
 altered voice : 
 
 " Good heavens, man ! can't you tell the difference be- 
 tween love and egotism ? If I'd wanted this money of my
 
 1 86 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 cousin's I'd have married Paul du Peyral sometimes I 
 wish I had. Anyhow, he's man enough to be a good scamp, 
 instead of a desponding, faint-hearted creature who won't 
 raise a finger to help himself except in his own useless way. 
 Bah ! I'm tired of your high moral tone ! " 
 
 Eric rose, and took his hat preparatory to leaving in 
 silence hurt to the bottom of his soul. As he turned, the 
 Princess Daphne, pressing her hands to her head, fell for- 
 ward upon the floor. 
 
 In a moment he was at her side, had raised her gently 
 and laid her on the lounge. Not a sign of life ! not a throb 
 of the heart! Her face was deathly white, her hands were 
 tightly clinched. He had never seen her like this before, 
 and with a strange feeling of terror he sent off post-haste, 
 not for the doctor without an idea beyond indigestion, 
 but for an eminent physician, whose waiting-rooms are the 
 rendezvous of half the queens of London society. As good 
 luck would have it, the great man was at home and alone, 
 and within an hour of the Princess' seizure he arrived in 
 Holland Street. 
 
 Daphne had been put to bed by the distraught Clytie, and 
 
 after making a rapid and silent examination, Doctor P 
 
 joined Eric in the studio. 
 
 " Your wife ? " queried he, briefly. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Ah ! " and he took a scrap of paper to write a prescrip- 
 tion. 
 
 " Has she ever been like this before ? " 
 
 " Never. She has had curious fainting fits ; there have 
 been times when she has apparently suffered from a kind of 
 obsession but it has never been protracted and profound 
 like this." 
 
 " Ah ! Who is her regular attendant ? " 
 
 " Dr. ; he lives opposite." 
 
 " Send for him." 
 
 In a few minutes the doctor we already know arrived,
 
 THE REtNCARNA T10N OF DAPHNE. 1 87 
 
 and metaphorically grovelled before his superior, to whom 
 nevertheless he remarked immediately and consequentially : 
 
 "It is, I presume, one of Miss Preault's recurrent fainting 
 fits resulting from a slight stomachic disorder. I have 
 been in the habit of exhibiting " 
 
 " The spectacle of a schoolboy playing at being a doctor," 
 
 rapped out Dr. P . "It has nothing to do with faintness 
 
 of any kind ; and as for indigestion pooh ! " 
 
 " You think it grave ? " said Eric, anxiously. 
 
 " Very grave," replied the physician. " The cause is 
 beyond me the effect is only too apparent." 
 
 " And that is ? " 
 
 " What are you to Miss Pre'ault ? " said Dr. P , taking 
 
 Eric aside. 
 
 " She is dearer to me than anything else in the world." 
 
 " Sir, I am sincerely sorry for you I can give you no 
 hope." 
 
 " None whatever ? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 " When will the end come ? " 
 
 " At about midnight." 
 
 Eric turned, burying his head in his hands. 
 
 " If, when she recovers consciousness, as she may do, 
 there is any delirium, let her have this prescription," said 
 the physician, on leaving. " I can do no more I regret to 
 have been able to do so little. Good afternoon." And he 
 left the house, obsequiously attended by the local G. P., 
 whom he indignantly ignored. 
 
 At midnight a single lamp burned dimly in the Princess 
 Daphne's room, and Eric, who had been sitting motionless 
 beside her since the moment her death-sentence had been 
 pronounced, rose and bent over her as, with a sigh, she 
 opened her eyes and looked into his speechless motion- 
 less but conscious of his presence. Once or twice, in 
 answer to the appeals he made to her in a passionate 
 whisper, her lips moved as if she would fain have answered 
 him, but no sound broke the silence in answer to his prayer,
 
 1 88 THE PRINCESS DAPHKE. 
 
 save the gurgling sobs of the black woman, who crouched 
 upon her knees in a corner, alternately choking and mutter- 
 ing incomprehensible invocations to her poly-personal deity 
 in jade. 
 
 This continued until a quarter to one ; then, on the night 
 air, there was borne to his ears the last swell of some 
 chaunt that died in the Carmelite church near by. Roused 
 by this, a dog howled behind the house, a fretful, unhappy 
 howl, broken by little yaps before it settled into its lugubri- 
 ous breve and descending semibreve. The Princess moved 
 and seemed to say something, but if so, her whisper was 
 drowned by a burst of drunken laughter that rose from some 
 band of revellers who had taken Holland Street on their 
 way home. 
 
 When all was still, a faint flush came into Daphne's 
 cheek, and Eric, his heart bursting with grief, laid his tyead 
 close to hers, lifting her beautiful arms and circling them 
 around his neck as he enfolded her body in a last distracted 
 embrace. Clytie had risen and was standing at the foot of 
 the bed. 
 
 "Eric my love " whispered the Princess Daphne, 
 royal still, though in the arms of death, " I am going 
 remember I loved you, and none but you you were my 
 life my religion I had no thought that was not yours. 
 Good-bye keep the old place where we've been so happy. 
 I can't see you, darling but I know you are there. Good- 
 night ! " 
 
 The head fell back as he held her in his arms he could 
 feel her dying as he held her. The already cold body grew 
 colder, the live feeling seemed to die out of it, the eyes 
 opened and then half closed, the lips parted a little, and a 
 sigh escaped them which Eric caught in a wild, agonized 
 kiss. The body was heavy. The arms had fallen from 
 
 about his neck. The Princess Daphne was dead ! 
 
 ******* 
 
 As he held her in his arms, her head lying back upon his
 
 THE REINCARNA TION OF DAPHNE. \ 89 
 
 hand, the silence of the death-scene was broken by a shrill 
 cry from Clytie : 
 
 " Oh, Gord ! Mars' Eric look dar ! " 
 
 Her white eyes shone in the darkness, as she pointed 
 with a withered black finger to the side of the bed opposite 
 to Eric. 
 
 Nothing ! 
 
 " What do you mean, woman ? " said Eric, angry through 
 his grief at the interruption. 
 
 "Yaas, dar yaas, dar! oh, Mars' Eric don' yo see 
 'um ? dar, now he touch my honey chile oh, Missy Daph ! " 
 
 Eric had turned his head to where the black woman's 
 finger had indicated a figure invisible to him. Now he 
 turned again to Daphne. Good God ! was he mad ? A 
 spark lit the great eyes, which had opened a little farther ; 
 the lips gave utterance to a little gasp, as the woman swal- 
 lowed and sighed ; a single strong beat announced the rea- 
 wakened heart, as Daphne Preault gave a wild look in the 
 direction of Clytie's unseen Thing, and exclaiming, in almost 
 her strongest voice : 
 
 "Paul!" fell back upon the bed insensible, but alive. 
 
 Alive ! Eric rose to his feet, an icy-cold sensation of terror 
 seizing in its grip every fibre of his body. What had hap- 
 pened ? He hardly dared to think. Clytie was once more 
 crouched in her original corner, no longer sobbing, but 
 praying volubly to the idol returning thanks doubtless for 
 his recent performance. 
 
 Eric seated himself and wrote on a leaf of his note-book : 
 " Crisis over she is alive must see you can you come at 
 onceT' 
 
 " Clytie," said he, " you love your mistress ; if you want 
 to save her life, take this to Hanover Square at once. 
 Don't lose a second find a cab at the church ; " and with a 
 nimbleness that Clytie would never have confessed to being 
 capable of, the darkie idolater was gone. 
 
 In half an hour she was back with another slip of paper. 
 "Am in bed very sleepy will come in the morning a miracle
 
 1 90 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 has happened she will live give my prescription if necessary." 
 That was all and somehow Eric felt that it was enough. 
 
 The Princess was breathing peacefully her unconscious- 
 ness seemed to have given place to sleep. And she slept 
 till morning. She was restored to him from the dead. Re- 
 stored, did I say? Well, hardly! "The Princess" had 
 reached that undiscovered country from whose bourne no 
 traveller returns. Daphne Preault came to life ! She was 
 
 never " The Princess Daphne " again. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The traces of fire faded slowly from Gabriel Hawleigh's 
 face. The agony of inflammation had left his cicatrized 
 eye-balls, and, with carefully shaded eyes, the happy young 
 artist of a month before felt his way timidly about the house 
 and studio he knew so well. With trembling hands he 
 would lightly touch the furniture and hangings, and a sharp 
 contraction of pain would come over his features when his 
 hands met his paint-box or palette, or other artistic para- 
 phernalia. The absence of the pictures which had lain 
 about seemed to hurt him, and they kept him as much as 
 possible out of the studio, whilst " the boys " would come in 
 and sit and talk with him, avoiding with all the tact of which 
 they were capable, the subject of his affliction. Sometimes 
 unconsciously someone would bring his mind back to it by 
 accident, and then a sharp spasm of grief used to shake him, 
 whilst Maye or Mrs. Hawleigh dexterously turned the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 The doctor whose fiat had gone forth that Gabriel was to 
 be removed as soon as possible to the moors, was not one of 
 those immortalized medicos who 
 
 " come in haste, 
 To suit their physic to the patient's taste ; " 
 
 for the thought of leaving Holland Street, which he knew so 
 well, for a place that he might possibly never see, was a per- 
 fect nightmare to the blind man. But Dr. Richardson was 
 inexorable on the point : setting aside the benefit that he 
 hoped might be derived from the pure, heath-scented atmos-
 
 THE REINCA KNA TION OF DAPHNE. 1 9 1 
 
 phere of Dartmoor, the continual brooding over familiar 
 surroundings that he could only feel, even in the weeks 
 which preceded his departure, began to have a perceptible 
 influence on Gabriel's mind he was becoming irritable, 
 fretful, impatient, as blind men are apt to do when ill-health 
 MS added to their infirmity ; and therefore, as soon as it was 
 possible to move him, they started for the cottage that they 
 had found with the assistance of Eric Trevanion's knowl- 
 edge of the neighbourhood, for it was comparatively for 
 Dartmoor close to Trthwwsthpllgg Manor. 
 
 No better description of their retreat could be given than 
 that contained in Mrs. Hawleigh's first letter to Daphne 
 Preault. " Here we are," she wrote, " on the borders of 
 Dartmoor, three hours' drive from the nearest town, and a 
 Sabbath day's journey from London. I do think Dr. Rich- 
 ardson might have sent us to some more civilized corner of 
 the world. I feel as if I were banished forever from every- 
 one I have ever known in my life ; but I don't complain, as 
 it is for my poor boy's sake. Miles of moor all round us ! 
 and I fancy the nearest civilized habitation is the convict 
 prison if one can call that civilized. For my part I live in 
 constant dread of a sudden invasion of escaped convicts, in 
 horrid, unbecoming striped stockings, and with things like 
 bluebottles, supposed to represent broad arrows, all over 
 them. But the air is lovely, and already Gabriel seems less 
 fretful than he was in Holland Street." 
 
 And so, for a time at least, the Hawleighs seemed to 
 have gone out of the life of the Holland-Street colony, and 
 Eric, for one, had perhaps realized what a loss they had sus- 
 tained in the departure of the genial matron and the grave- 
 eyed maid who raised the little house from a studio to the 
 sweet dignity of a home. Yes he missed them, for since 
 the recovery of Daphne, an indefinable and almost weird 
 change had taken place in her personality. 
 
 Even to Eric the change was inexplicable. Daphne Pre- 
 ault was, if possible, even more beautiful than she had been 
 before her illness, but it was a different kind of beauty.
 
 1 92 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 Her carriage had lost dignity and had acquired grace ; her 
 great, dark eyes were matchless as of yore, but their look 
 was no longer calm and imperious, as it had been when she 
 raised them to his, at the conclusion of her song on the night 
 of Gabriel Hawleigh's Bohemian soiree ; the lovely curves of 
 her mouth had lost much of their firmness and had acquired 
 a certain soft, flickering smile that was inviting in its subtle 
 mockery, but no longer benign and pitying as it had been 
 when first she smiled upon Eric Trevanion ; and in her atti- 
 tudes, as she lounged about the studio, there was a languor 
 which she had not possessed before. In her music there 
 was a quaint, sensuous harmony that had not characterized it 
 when she was " The Princess Daphne " ; in her speech, a word 
 here, a glance or a smile there, betrayed a lower standard of 
 intelligence ; and in her painting the detail of Meissonier had 
 given place to the morbid minutia of Van Beers and of the 
 latest French school. She would devote hours to painting 
 some demi-mondaine, sleeping carelessly the sleep of exhaus- 
 tion in an absolutely " esoteric " attitude ; and at the con- 
 clusion of her work she would draw a brush full of bright 
 vermillion across the canvas, and tell Eric that it was a 
 painting in his school " An Impression of Humanity in 
 Primary Colours." Into her caresses there crept ay> tie sais 
 quoi of inexplicable earthliness, that almost repelled whilst 
 it intoxicated him. The change she had announced as possi- 
 ble in her had taken place. The savage side of her nature 
 seemed to have got the upper hand. 
 
 She was less womanly, and more female. 
 
 These were dark days for Eric. His poverty told upon 
 his spirits ; he no longer cared to go into society, as here- 
 tofore, and it was only at rare intervals that he could be 
 tempted forth into the world of men. Another factor which 
 conduced to his distaste for society was that Daphne be- 
 trayed a tendency to cross-question and catechise his going- 
 out and coming-in ; she would chaff him about the women he 
 met at dinner-parties, and almost make him " scenes " about 
 them in a word, he was beginning to feel a little friction
 
 THE REINCARNATION OF DAPHNE. 193 
 
 of the chain that bound him to Daphne Preault. It is a 
 horrible thought for a man that he is bound to a woman by 
 ties of financial dependence, even when the accord between 
 them is perfect ; but when a certain uneasiness has sprung 
 up between them, it becomes frightful ; and Eric began to 
 experience a horrible feeling of revulsion when Daphne began 
 to claim as a right the little services he had felt himself so 
 honoured by her accepting as favours. Of one acquaintance 
 of his she was especially jealous : this was the eminent 
 
 Doctor P , who had apparently taken a fancy to this 
 
 grave young man, and had asked him to call upon him in 
 Hanover Square, an invitation of which he had eagerly 
 
 taken advantage. One day Dr. P had called, semi- 
 
 professionally, he said, upon Miss Prdault, and after he had 
 gone, she had said : 
 
 " I never want to see that man again I don't trust him ; 
 he seems to be watching us all the time he talks ; he'd like 
 to separate us if he could and I'll take good care he 
 doesn't. Mind that, Eric ! " 
 
 The speech had jarred upon him, more in its tone than 
 in the words she used, and the next time he called upon 
 
 Dr. P , he said nothing about it to her. It was the first 
 
 action of his life, since he had known her, that he had not 
 told her all about. 
 
 One day she was lying on the lounge, reading a news- 
 paper, one shapely foot trailing on the floor, the other lying 
 on a cushion at the foot of the lounge, when suddenly she 
 looked up and said, " Eric, we must see this new play at 
 the Prince's Theatre ; let's go on Wednesday." 
 
 " Very sorry, chdrie" he had replied, " but I can't." 
 " Oh, that's all right," returned she ; " 77/get the tickets ; 
 it wont cost you anything." 
 
 He turned very pale, and then very red, as he answered : 
 "It's not that, dear; I have an engagement." 
 " Oh indeed ! you didn't tell me what is it ? " 
 
 "A dinner-party at Dr. P 's in Hanover Square." 
 
 " Ah ! " returned Daphne, " I don't wonder you said noth- 
 '3
 
 194 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 ing about it : you're always with that odious man, it seems 
 to me he interferes with everything." 
 
 " You can hardly say that, Daphne ; it's only the second 
 time I've dined there. Surely you don't mind my going ; 
 one meets interesting people at his house, and this dinner 
 is in honour of a celebrated American doctor who has just 
 arrived." 
 
 " Come and sit down here." 
 
 He sank on the lounge by her side, a little nervously, and 
 she put her arms round his neck and drew his head close 
 down to hers. 
 
 " Don't go, darling," she whispered ; " stay here with me 
 I'll give up the play, if you'll give up the dinner I don't 
 want you to go that doctor doesn't like me, and I know 
 he'll separate us if he can." 
 
 " But. my dear girl I must go. I've accepted, and I can't 
 put off a man like Dr. P at the last moment." 
 
 " You are determined ? " 
 
 " Well yes, dear." 
 
 " Oh, very well, then ! go to your horrid dinner-party. 
 Anything to get away from me, and go about flirting with 
 other women. I wonder you don't give in to your dear 
 father and go and marry ' a county girl,' in Cornwall it 
 would about suit yojj. You'd probably suit her, now I've 
 made a man of you, and you've got tired of me." 
 
 She pushed his head roughly away from her, and turned 
 her face into the cushions of the lounge, pretending to go 
 to sleep. Eric sighed deeply as he returned to his writing- 
 table. But his mind was made up he would dine at Dr. 
 P 's on the following Wednesday. 
 
 Until the evening in question nothing more was said, on 
 either side, on the subject. When seven o'clock on Wednes- 
 day evening arrived, however, and Eric was just leaving the 
 house to go home and dress for his party, as he passed the 
 dining-room he saw, through the open door, the table rather 
 coquettishly laid for two just as in the first days of their 
 love. His first impulse was to return to the studio and ask
 
 THE REINCARNATION OF DAPHNE. 195 
 
 for an explanation ; his second was to do nothing of the 
 kind, and with a little proud toss of his head he passed on 
 and across the street. Whilst he dressed, however, the one 
 thought that surged through his brain was, " Whom does she 
 expect ? whom does she expect ? " 
 
 He had almost lulled his mind to rest by the artificially- 
 produced conviction that Daphne, having been stricken with 
 a horror of being alone, had sent for Sylvia or Eva Easton 
 to dine with her. But why had she not told him ? This was 
 a question which solved itself as he stood at the looking- 
 glass in his window tying his cravat. It was just half past 
 seven, when a cab drove up to Miss Preault's door, and 
 Mr. Charles Sturton-Baker, springing out, disappeared into 
 the house. It was with a queer, strained sensation, like a 
 nasty taste in his mouth which he could not get rid of, that 
 Eric Trevanion took an omnibus at St. Mary Abbot's and 
 proceeded, by way of Bond Street, to Hanover Square ; and 
 though the dinner was interesting, and the American doctor 
 was in every respect a remarkable man, his soul was in 
 Holland Street all the time, and as soon as the first lady 
 gave the signal for departure at eleven o'clock, he also made 
 his escape to regain Holland Street on foot, in the fresh air 
 of the cool summer night. 
 
 Miss Daphne Preault's house was quite dark, and he 
 stood on the pavement in front, deliberating whether to go 
 in as usual, or not, for some minutes, his latch-key in his 
 hand, his heart beating with that strong, measured thud that 
 the coolest of us have experienced in moments of agitation, 
 however impassive and unconscious we may outwardly ap- 
 pear to be. 
 
 At last he persuaded himself that to refrain from going 
 in would be, in the first place, cowardly in him, and in the 
 second, an insult to Daphne, so he turned the key and 
 stepped through the house into the studio, which he could 
 see from the hall-door was illuminated. As he walked down 
 the little passage, how he prayed that he might find her 
 alone ! and, such is the contradictory nature of man's feel-
 
 196 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 ings, the moment he stepped into the studio he felt he would 
 have given worlds to have found Mr. Baker still there. 
 
 The ex-Princess Daphne was lying asleep on the lounge 
 in an attitude of the most delicious lassitude. She was 
 wrapped in one of her softest and most easy neglige's, her 
 head thrown back on her hands, which were clasped be- 
 hind it. She did not wake as he stood on the hearth-rug, 
 his back to the empty fireplace, looking at her, just as he 
 had stood on that other night that seemed already so long, 
 long ago ; and as he looked at her, a feeling of horrible, 
 undefinable dread stealing over him, he went back in his 
 mind over all the short past he had trodden with her, and 
 which had seemed so exquisite to him. Was it all over 
 was it irrevocably ended, to-night? A voice deep within his 
 heart so deep that he could not reach it to stifle it told 
 him that it was so indeed ; and then a great, profound pity 
 surged up in his mind, and his eyes filled with tears. He 
 knelt softly by the sleeping woman, and, bending over her, 
 touched her lips with his. Without opening her eyes, and 
 with a little sigh, she returned his kiss ah ! so sweetly, 
 that he was about to fling his arms round her, when she 
 raised the lids from the grand brown eyes he had so often 
 closed with his lips, and, seeing him, uttered a little exclama- 
 tion of surprise, in which he detected a ring of mingled 
 disappointment and alarm, as, turning her head away so as 
 to avoid him, she said : 
 
 "Oh! it's you/" 
 
 He sprang to his feet with a strangled gasp of pain and 
 rage, and stood staring down at her as she slowly turned 
 her head and looked him defiantly in the eyes. 
 
 Not a word was said for a few moments. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It was Daphne who first broke the silence : 
 
 " Well," she said, " did you enjoy your dinner-party ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 No ? Why ? " 
 
 " Because, strange though it may appear to you, I would
 
 THE REINCARNATION OF DAPHNE. 197 
 
 sooner have killed myself, or have been struck blind like 
 poor Gabriel Hawleigh, than have seen that man enter 
 your house this evening." 
 
 " Ah ! you spy upon me ? Well I presume I am at 
 liberty to ask whomever I like to my own house when you 
 are away amusing yourself elsewhere." 
 
 " Oh ! of course My God ! has it come to this ? " 
 
 " Why, certainly, mon cher, why not ? Why can't you live 
 and let live." 
 
 " I don't live this is worse than death to me. Since 
 when has that man been coming here in my absence ? " 
 
 " Since you have made it a recurring practice to be ab- 
 sent how selfish you are ! He has my interests at heart, 
 and comes to consult with me on my American affairs. You 
 know he is in some way interested in them himself, and 
 you surely have not forgotten that it is through him that 
 I have obtained, or shall obtain, the fortune Paul du Peyral 
 cheated me out of;" 
 
 " I congratulate you," said Eric, bitterly, " on the means 
 whereby you have obtained his skilled cooperation. Good 
 God, Daphne, how changed you are ! I have felt it ever since 
 your illness it needed but this to convince me. I could 
 almost believe that you are the subject of a marvellous story 
 that was told us to-night by the American doctor who arrived 
 in this country only yesterday." 
 
 " Ah ! a story ? What was it ? " 
 
 "I am not in a mood to tell stories." 
 
 " But I am in a mood to hear them. Tell me this one." 
 
 " He told us of a man whose death-bed he attended in 
 New York a man who was the incarnation of all that was 
 unprincipled; who had by some supernatural means pro- 
 jected his soul his vitality into some woman over here, 
 by means of his mistress, over whom he had obtained a 
 marvellous mesmeric power. I could almost believe, looking 
 at you as I see you now, that you are the woman." 
 
 " I am."
 
 198 THE PKINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " What do you mean ? Daphne ! do you want to drive me 
 mad?" 
 
 "Not at all, my dear boy. Your American doctor's name 
 was Schuyler Van Boomkamp, was it not ? " 
 
 " Yes how did you know ? " 
 
 " Inductively, through Mr. Baker. The man over there 
 was Paul du Peyral ; his mistress was in fact his wife, 
 Mahmoure du Peyral, nbe di Zulueta ; and I am Miss Daphne 
 Preault of New Orleans, his. blood relation and, by a coinci- 
 dence, apparently his double, at your service." 
 
 Eric stood looking at her in horrified amazement for a 
 few moments longer, and then, without a word, turned and 
 left the house. Daphne Prdault rose from the lounge and 
 spent an hour with her thoughts before going to bed. 
 
 The whole thing, from Eric's entrance, seemed to be a 
 
 twisted version of that other night in the preceding autumn. 
 ****** 
 
 On the following morning Eric did not make his appear- 
 ance as was his wont. The hours crept by, filled for Daphne 
 with idleness ; lunch-time came, and still no Eric. 
 
 "Well," thought Daphne, "he's in a huff about something 
 or other. Really, that man becomes wearisome assommant. 
 Heaven defend me in the future from a rich man who's 
 grown poor ! they're the worst kind of paupers, because 
 they're so impracticable. Heigho ! I hope kind fate will 
 send me some visitors I'm bored with myself." 
 
 As if in answer to her prayer Clytie entered the studio at 
 this moment, bearing a card. With a feeling of genuine 
 relief Daphne stretched out her hand to take it, hoping that 
 it was a man, or at the least an interesting woman, with whom 
 to while away the hours of afternoon ; she did not feel inclined 
 to go out; she would far rather sit and chat lazily at 
 home. 
 
 As she looked at the card, a sudden grip of pain seemed 
 to seize her, and a flush rose to her brow which as quickly 
 gave place to a white, hard, stern look that augured ill for 
 the reception of the visitor.
 
 THE REINCARNA TION OF DAPHNE. 199 
 
 The name on the card, printed in tiny block letters, was 
 " Madame du Peyral." 
 
 We have none of us heard or thought much of anyone 
 without making to ourselves a strongly defined mental picture 
 of their personalities, a picture, as a rule, so widely differing 
 from the truth that the difference, when we see how great 
 it is, strikes us as a keen disappointment, if not as an insult 
 to our intelligence. Since the news of Paul's marriage to 
 an actress had reached her, Daphne had conjured up an 
 unvarying picture of Mahmoure. She expected to see a 
 rather loud-looking woman tall, voluptuously formed, with 
 a handsome, bold, foreign face a face to suit the name, 
 Mahmoure di Zulueta. She had seen the type in all its 
 glory at Nice, at Monte Carlo, at Ems, at Aix : they are 
 usually called " Mine, la Princesse de Quelquechose," and are 
 generally to be seen dashing up and down the most fre- 
 quented allies, in wildly luxurious landaus or victorias, 
 whose panels bear highly emblazoned coats of arms, and 
 the cockades of whose coachmen's hats are decorated with 
 little scraps of divers-colored ribbon. They are also usually 
 attended by quiet, dignified men, all of them built alike 
 that is to say : complexion ivory white, hair and moustache 
 white and trimmed en brosse, perfectly dressed, patent- 
 leather boots, light gloves, tightly buttoned in drab-coloured 
 frock coats, white hats, canes with gold heads, the air of 
 " Diplomacy " stamped indescribably but unmistakably upon 
 them, the whole arrangement identified with and known by 
 some noble Russian name. The type pays little attention 
 to the woman by its side, whom one catches one's self wonder- 
 ing vaguely about whether it be his wife, sister, or chere 
 amie. 
 
 This was the kind of woman whom Daphne Pre'ault pre- 
 pared herself to snub, as a gentle frou-frou of skirts heralded 
 the entrance of Mahmoure. The door closed and the two 
 women, animated by such different feelings, faced each 
 other ; but instead of advancing, by a singular and simul- 
 taneous impulse each stopped as if transfixed.
 
 200 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 Perhaps no one ever belied a name as did Mahmoure, 
 dressed to go into the world. She had essentially that un- 
 definable pose which only the true gentlewoman can pos- 
 sess, whilst so many gently-bred women lack it altogether. 
 Always dressed in an absolutely original arrangement of the 
 very last fashion, she would have been remarked anywhere, 
 but not, as is usually the case, in consequence of her gown 
 per se, for she had the art of subduing and rendering har- 
 monious the most bizarre "creation," and for " form " would 
 have been singled out from any crowd. Where this little 
 foreigner got her manner from was a marvel to the envious ; 
 it seemed in no sense acquired, but instinctive. 
 
 Daphne's hand which held the card dropped mechanically 
 to her side, and the pasteboard fluttered to the floor. Her 
 eyes were fixed on Mahmoure's face in questioning wonder 
 where had she seen this stranger before ? The face 
 seemed perfectly familiar, yet unknown ; and it was attrac- 
 tive to her with an attraction beyond the power of words to 
 describe. She remembered nothing of her indignation ; the 
 thoughts of resentment she had felt due to Mahmoure' faded 
 away. She felt as if a new era had sprung up in her feel- 
 ings since the moment her eyes first rested on the small 
 sable-clad figure that stood motronless before her, the pale 
 face, framed in its burnished bronze hair, standing out 
 weirdly from the dark surroundings. 
 
 This strange sympathy that took possession of Daphne 
 was the more absorbing from the fact that it was quite new 
 to her for she was not given to what is called " gushing " 
 over women. Though she liked them very well, she never 
 made nor needed "greatest girl-friends." The affection 
 which seems to be such a necessity, such an all-absorbing 
 lien, between some women had always been a matter for 
 wonder to her. In her school days, when some girl or other 
 had sought her in friendship, and had drifted into adoration, 
 as girls will drift, Daphne had never been able to under- 
 stand why she should be expected to waste her time in pro- 
 miscuous osculation. She would submit in a gracious man-
 
 THE REIXCARNA TION OF DAPHNE. 2OI 
 
 ner to being kissed ; it seemed to please the other girl, and 
 didn't hurt her but why ? but why ? she would question. 
 After she had grown up, and after she had begun her Bohe- 
 mian life among " the boys," women betrayed a tendency to 
 like, to admire, and to adore her her magnetism seemed to 
 reach them to an extraordinary degree. Their liking may 
 have been due to the fact that, fascinatingly beautiful as 
 she was, sensuously and a trifle masculinely formed, she 
 had admitted no man before Eric to her close friendship. 
 However it was, certain it is, that in society she was run 
 after by all the women whose names were most quoted as 
 associating at ultra-fashionable functions ; and the tributes 
 to her talent which reached her in the form of letters and 
 bouquets, each year, after the opening of the Academy, were 
 almost invariably addressed in the fashionable female hand, 
 and scented an point de delire. She sometimes wondered at 
 it, for she never strove for their patronage or friendship. 
 At last she accepted it unquestioningly, thanking her fem- 
 inine admirers for the many charming afternoons they gave 
 her, and passively permitting herself to be loved, as is al- 
 ways the role of one principal in a great friendship. 
 
 Therefore was she the more amazed to find herself drawn 
 irresistibly to this little woman, whose big eyes were fixed on 
 her with a strange, far-off look. Her prejudice faded, her 
 fancied anger fled all were merged in an uncontrollable 
 desire to comfort and^welcome the sad, sweet-faced woman 
 before her. She roused herself and advanced a little, 
 stretching out both hands so as to take Mahmoure almost 
 in her arms as she said : 
 
 " You must let me welcome you to England," and for the 
 first time in her life offered her lips to be kissed by a woman, 
 impelled by a fascination which was stronger than herself, 
 and which was wholly due to the strange magnetism of her 
 visitor's personality. 
 
 And Mahmoure, who had remained meanwhile as one in 
 a dream ? ^ As she gazed, an almost supernatural look flamed 
 from her eyes at first it was one of questioning, then by
 
 2O2 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 degrees the questioning turned to recognition. It was the 
 woman she had seen at Paul's bedside at the moment of his 
 death ! Her eyes became moist, and lit up vividly ; the 
 pupils dilated till the colour of the iris seemed blotted out ; a 
 weird, sullen darkness filled them, heavy and soft ; and then, 
 as Daphne's lips touched hers, a flash illumined them before 
 they closed, as she leaned upon the other woman, murmur- 
 ing in a sigh as she threw back her head, almost unconsci- 
 ous, "Paul!" 
 
 Instantly both women recovered themselves. Of what 
 inscrutable influence had they been the sport ? Both were 
 confused, but Mahmoure, whose momentary aberration was 
 the more easily understood and explained, was the first to 
 regain her ordinary equilibrium. 
 
 " This is a strange meeting, Miss Preault," she said, " and 
 I fear I frighten you ; pray forgive me. I don't know quite 
 why I should lose my head on meeting you. I came to talk 
 severely business. If I tried to explain why you affect me 
 so strangely, you would laugh at me." 
 
 " Oh, no ! Believe me, I am as astonished as you but 
 somehow I seem to know you, madam." 
 
 " And I, you," replied Mahmoure. " The instant I saw 
 you all recollection of time, place, and circumstance seemed 
 to leave me. I seemed to be in a dream, for I saw in you 
 the man whose name is so familiar to you, and who was so 
 dear to me, Paul du Peyral ! I should feel bitterly ashamed 
 of my folly were I not sure that you will forgive and forget 
 the weakness of an invalid." 
 
 " But I am not angry at all," returned Daphne. " Come, 
 let us sit on the lounge here, and you shall tell me all about 
 yourself. As you can imagine, I have been anxious not to 
 say curious to see you in the flesh, for I too have a con- 
 fession to make that will seem foolish and hysterical to you. 
 I seem to have seen you before in a dream, or somehow 
 so we are not strangers what does it mean ? " 
 
 " I don't know how I can explain it, Miss Pre'ault " 
 
 "Call me Daphne won't you Mahmoure? Yours is
 
 THE REINCARNA TION OF DAPHNE. 203 
 
 such a beautiful name that I should love to call you by it in 
 exchange." 
 
 " Please, do. Well, to continue : I think the sympathy 
 between us rests on our having both been influenced by the 
 same man who resembled you as if he were your twin 
 and who was my husband. It is of that I came to speak to 
 you I have wronged you deeply can you forgive me ? " 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive ; we shall be great friends, 
 I know." 
 
 "Ah! how good you are !" exclaimed Mahmoure' ; and 
 she kissed the hand that Daphne extended to her. 
 
 They were seated close together on the lounge, and 
 though an ordinary observer would not have seen anything 
 strange in the appearance of the two women, one of them 
 at least had by no means recovered her self-possession. It 
 was Daphne who could not reconcile her own conflicting 
 sensations she could find no reason for the intense, soft 
 satisfaction that she felt under the influence of Mahmoure's 
 presence, of her touch, of her gaze, of her kiss. 
 
 It seemed like a new obsession, and it troubled her ; but 
 at last she explained it to her own dissatisfaction as being 
 natural magnetism or madness. But she thought that if 
 Mahmoure was mad, she was a singularly interesting 
 maniac; and as the low, tender voice spoke on, the desire to 
 befriend her and to love her grew stronger and stronger, 
 till at last she gave herself up to the moment, and she and 
 Mahmoure plunged, confidentially, into stories of their past 
 lives, of the events that had established such a sympathy 
 between them, and had finally brought them together. 
 
 The afternoon was drawing to a close with tea and chatter. 
 Daphne had denied herself to every visitor, and the two 
 women, completely at their ease, sat, or rather lounged on 
 the divan, exchanging confidences as the hours sped by. 
 
 " Very well, then," said Daphne, as if concluding an 
 arrangement ; " that is settled ; so long as you are in Eng- 
 land you must spend much of your time here with me. The 
 questions of business that exist between us can be disposed
 
 2O4 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 of in a morning, and we must see all that we can of one 
 another whilst we can. You cannot think how strangely 
 happy I am that chance should have thrown us together 
 like this. Our friendship, though sudden, must be lasting ; 
 promise me, Mahmoure, that it shall be." 
 
 And Mahmoure, lying among the cushions, looked up 
 into Daphne's beautiful eyes and said : 
 
 " I promise you ! " 
 
 For answer Daphne bent and kissed the beautiful lips 
 that had framed the words, as if to thank them. A sudden 
 noise made her raise her head suddenly, and Mahmoure 
 also started up into a less "easy " position. 
 
 Eric Trevanion stood before them. 
 
 Daphne blushed scarlet, for no earthly reason that she 
 could give herself, as she rose, and, going to the tea-table, 
 said : 
 
 " Madame du Peyral, this is my great friend and ally, 
 Mr. Eric Trevanion. Eric, this is Mme. Paul du Peyral." 
 
 Eric bowed profoundly and raised his eyes to Mahmourd's, 
 What was the intense feeling of antipathy that surged over 
 him as he met her steady gaze ? He could not tell. But he 
 grew pale as he took his tea-cup from Daphne, and he felt 
 that, whatever might be the character of this beautiful little 
 Oriental woman, she was an enemy to him, a barrier to be, 
 between himself and Daphne. 
 
 He could not reason it out, but as he put Mahmoure' into 
 her hansom when she took her departure, and she leant 
 upon his hand in getting in, the same electric thrill of in- 
 tense antagonism shot through him, and he turned back 
 into the house.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE AUTOCRAT OF TRTHWWSTHPLLGG. 
 
 ON the few occasions when I have time to think at all, I 
 have often thought it strange that so few Englishmen know 
 anything of one of the most glorious districts of their native 
 land, save from the pages of " Lorna Doone " and the writ- 
 ings of Baring-Gould. The Amateur Pedestrian is a strongly 
 English institution, but the proportion of pedestrians who 
 explore the beauties of Dartmoor is ridicuously small by 
 comparison with the army of knapsack-fiends who yearly 
 invade the lake district of Cumberland, the Peak scenery of 
 Derbyshire, and Scotland generally. I am not going to 
 challenge comparison with Blackmore in a description of 
 Dartmoor. Had Gabriel Hawleigh been able to see the 
 beauties that were bathed in the exquisite heather-scented 
 atmosphere that day by day brought back the colour to his 
 wan cheeks, he would have made many a study of landscape 
 from the neighborhood of the little cottage in which the 
 Hawleigh household found itself installed just beyond the 
 borders of Cornwall. But Gabriel was blind, and it was in 
 vain that Mrs. Hawleigh endeavoured to discover any sign 
 that the veil that hid the life around him from his eyes 
 showed any tendency to lift, and give back to her son the 
 glorious gift of sight. 
 
 The cottage that they had found was little short of an 
 artist's paradise. A little house of one story, shut out from 
 the lonely moor-road by a privet hedge, and sheltered from 
 the winds by high elms and poplars, which bowed their 
 heads in sage appreciation of the secrets whispered to one 
 another by their intermingling branches, when the moor 
 winds woke them to murmur. 
 
 205
 
 206 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 Their lives were as quiet and uneventful as lives can be. 
 Maye and Gabriel made music together a good deal. Fort- 
 unately, Gabriel, virtuoso as he had laughingly declared him- 
 self to be, had the faculty of playing by ear, and from mem- 
 ory, highly developed. Now that the faculty had become a 
 necessity, it had increased wonderfully, and they spent long, 
 happy mornings together, lost in the clouds of harmony with 
 which they rilled the little cottage, playing over all Gabriel's 
 old repertoire, learning new masterpieces, which Maye would 
 play on the piano for Gabriel to pick up on the violin, and 
 yet more often breaking into the wild, passionate improvisa- 
 tions that had been the delight of the favoured few in the 
 Holland Street colony who had been permitted to hear them. 
 
 In the afternoon, the two would go out for walks on the 
 moor, arm-in-arm, chattering gayly over the points of land- 
 scape which Maye described, as minutely as she could, to 
 her poor blind boy. And when, as sometimes happened, 
 Gabriel had a return of his old listlessness and disappoint- 
 ment, and wanted to be left alone with his mother or with 
 his thoughts, Maye would wander forth alone, and explore 
 the country for new spots to which she might lead Gabriel 
 when next they took the air together. It was on one of 
 these solitary excursions that she made an accidental dis- 
 covery that was the beginning of the end of my story. 
 
 She had been practising with Gabriel all the morning, and 
 in the afternoon he had felt tired, and had gone to his room 
 instead of taking his customary stroll on the moor, and 
 Maye, feeling hipped and cramped in the little house, had 
 shod herself with the uncompromising boots which she 
 reserved for such excursions, had armed herself with the 
 ground-ash sapling that was her constant escort in her coun- 
 try walks, and had started out alone, along a new road, 
 which led she knew not whither. 
 
 As she walked, the girl's mind was busy revolving the 
 changes that had come into her life, analyzing her feelings 
 with a calm introspection that would have done credit to the 
 Princess Daphne herself. She loved Gabriel Hawleigh with
 
 THE AUTOCRAT OF TRTHWWSTHPLLGG. 2O/ 
 
 all her soul but did she yield her heart to him ? Though 
 she was as steadfast as ever in her purpose to marry him and 
 strive to make his life lighter for him in his blindness, yet a 
 vague questioning mood would sometimes come over her, 
 which frightened her, though she took it in hand, and never 
 let it interfere with her course along the path of what she 
 considered to be her duty. Were I writing a romance 
 telling of things that never happened I should have caused 
 my ideal maiden, Maye Trevethick, to love her betrothed 
 husband all the more wildly, all the more devotedly, for his 
 blindness, but I am speaking of a real, living woman a 
 good, pure, English maid, with all the real feelings of her age 
 and sex strong in her healthy young soul. Maye was not a 
 girl to idealize, or to hide her feelings from herself. She was 
 nineteen, and full of life and of wonder at the world ; she had 
 all the curiosity, the enthusiasm, of her age ; and she had be- 
 stowed her fair young self, a tribute of gratitude, upon the 
 boy whose life she was, whose light she was to be in every 
 sense of the word, whose mother had been a mother to her, 
 and to whom she was bound by every tie of recognition. 
 Yes ! My ideal maiden should have loved the boy the more 
 dearly, the more devotedly, for his affliction ; but Maye, 
 though strong in her single-hearted purpose to marry Gabriel 
 whenever he should wish it, realized that her life was doomed 
 to be blotted out, to be devoted to the care of an invalid 
 whose only knowledge of her fresh young beauty must be the 
 memory of the face he had so often fixed upon his canvas 
 the face that went laughing by in the darkness, in his picture 
 "Sunshine in the Fog, " whilst the blind man made music for 
 her laughter that it joyed him to hear, but whose smile he 
 would never see. 
 
 " Oh ! Gabriel Gabriel ! " she cried out sometimes in her 
 great loneliness ; " if only I could give you my eyes, and 
 my life with them, my poor blind love ! You will never see 
 me again and after we are married it will be the same 
 darkness darkness always always. Oh. God ! I am a 
 wretch to feel it like this, to think of it even for an instant ; but
 
 2O8 THE PKIXCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 the thought is sometimes terrible terrible. If only I could 
 think of nothing but his faithful love, his strong, true- 
 hearted devotion to me before he became a great man and 
 blind ; but I can't I can't. What use is it that I am 
 young, and that people tell me that I am fair? he can never 
 see me now. What use will it be to make our home beauti- 
 ful around him ? Oh ! why has my love changed so ? I do 
 not love him less ah, no ! not less ; but the love is not the 
 same. Would that I could be his servant instead of his 
 wife ? but that cannot be. Even when we were in town 
 Eric Trevanion was more useful to him than I ; and now he 
 constantly wishes that Eric was here with us. Pray God he 
 may not come but no, he cannot he has only one thought, 
 and that thought Daphne ! Ah ! why do I not hate her ? 
 but I can't she loves Eric so dearly and I ? well, well, I 
 felt like a fiend before I left London, when I wished that / 
 were blind that he might lead me about and read for me, as 
 he did for Gabriel. Oh, Gabriel, Gabriel, why is my love 
 for you changing ? for I can feel it changing, here at my 
 heart; and the thought is killing me." 
 
 And, wondering thus, she walked along the Cornish 
 roads, buried in thought, and not noticing whither her wan- 
 dering feet were leading her. She was roused suddenly 
 from her reverie to see the sun slanting to the west, and 
 knew that it was time she returned home. Returned home ! 
 Yes, certainly ; but where was she ? She appeared to have 
 reached the borders of the moor, and not a human habita- 
 tion was in sight, not a human being of whom she could ask 
 her way. 
 
 After considering the matter profoundly for a while, at a 
 place where three roads met, she decided at last to follow 
 one of them, in the hope of meeting someone who could put 
 her right, and started off, feeling a little bit frightened, and, 
 to tell the truth, a little bit tired. But she dared not acknowl- 
 edge this to herself, for she knew that she had a long way 
 to walk home, even after she got the direction, and that she
 
 THE AUTOCRAT OF TRTHWWSTHPLLGG. 209 
 
 must not increase her worry by the confession, even to her- 
 self, that she was weary. 
 
 She had walked along the road she had chosen for up- 
 wards of a mile without seeing any sign of human occupa- 
 tion of the county, and was beginning to feel a singular ten- 
 dency to cry for Maye was only a woman, after all when, 
 the road taking a sudden turn, she found herself confronted 
 by a high gate leading apparently into a park. There was 
 no lodge, but the private road inside the gate showed such 
 signs of cultivation that she concluded that it must lead to a 
 house, and so, mustering all her courage, she opened the 
 gate, which was fortunately not locked, and went in. 
 
 Where was that house ? The drive, for drive it appeared 
 to be, seemed interminable. Tired as she was, it seemed as 
 if she had walked for hours between the high and carefully 
 trimmed hedges of rhododendron and laurestinus, and she 
 was just preparing to give up in despair and retrace her 
 footsteps, when suddenly the hedges stopped, opened, and 
 the road dipped. I say dipped, because she found herself 
 standing on the summit of a steep declivity, where the road 
 suddenly plunged into a great hollow, at the bottom of 
 which lay what seemed to Maye to be the most beautiful old 
 house she had ever seen in her life. The precipitation of 
 the incline was modified for wayfarers by the road curving 
 round it to reach the bottom by an easier slope ; and it 
 stopped at a moat, a veritable moat, the mediaeval appear- 
 ance of which was only modernized by its being crossed by 
 a comparatively new stone bridge, which seemed to be care- 
 fully gravelled. 
 
 On the moat itself a few swans and innumerable ducks 
 sailed hither and thither, leaving broad fan-like wakes 
 behind them on the mirror-smooth surface of the water ; 
 and, apparently surrounded by the moat and standing in a 
 sweet, soft lawn that resembled green plush as she looked 
 down upon it, there rose a lovely old house, built half of 
 gray stone and half of grand old ruddy brick, with here and 
 there an excrescence in the form of a win of a more modern
 
 2IO THE PRINCESS DAPHA'E. 
 
 style of architecture. The whole seemed softened and ten- 
 der, as if its angles had been rounded off by the gentle, 
 continuous kiss of Time, which had spread over the crevices 
 of the masonry an embroidery of soft lichens, with here and 
 there a tuft of saxifrage or a golden ball of stone-crop. 
 Into the deathly stillness of the summer afternoon a perpen- 
 dicular column of blue smoke rose here and there from the 
 clustered chimney-stacks, and gave a touch of life to this 
 old-time manor-house ; and as she stood stricken motionless 
 by the beauty of the place, she espied a gardener driving a 
 mowing-machine over a far angle of the inner lawn. A gen- 
 tle whirr rose into the air from the machine, and then she 
 saw, dotted here and there on the slopes that surrounded 
 the house, lying lazily under the oaks and elms that pro- 
 tected this elysium from the winds of the moor, a few great 
 black oxen, which gave no sign of life save an occasional 
 sway of the head as they reached for some hitherto unno- 
 ticed tuft of clover. 
 
 A feeling of intense repose stole* over her weary senses as 
 she prepared to descend into the hollow and ask the man 
 who was mowing, where she was, when suddenly her purpose 
 was checked by the sound of wheels behind her. Whatever 
 it was that approached, humanity, in some form or other, 
 must accompany it, so she waited until the vehicle should 
 reach the spot where she stood as if enchanted. The 
 sound of the wheels drew nearer, and at last a dog-cart 
 turned the corner, driven by a man. Maye's first feminine 
 spasm of apprehension was banished as, on a second inspec- 
 tion, the man appeared to possess the requisite number of 
 years to allay her sexual alarm. It was an old man, and the 
 dog-cart perceptibly slackened its speed as its occupant 
 caught sight of the girl standing there, looking at him. 
 
 As he saw that she was about to speak, the driver stopped 
 his horse, and the trim servant who clung to the back seat 
 jumped down and posted himself, tigerwise, at the animal's 
 head, as the old gentleman, with an awkward movement, 
 jerked off his hat and threw it on again.
 
 THE AUTOCRA T OF TRTHWWSTHPLLGG. 2 1 I 
 
 " I have lost my way," began Miss Trevethick, quailing a 
 little under his questioning look, " and I came up this drive 
 hoping to find someone who could direct me. Can you tell 
 me how to get back to the village of Arthisham-by-Dart- 
 
 inoor 
 
 " Anhisham-by-Dartmoor ! Do you wish to walk back 
 there this evening, young lady ? " said the old gentleman, 
 with a look of astonishment. 
 
 " Yes if you please is it far ? " 
 
 " It's nine miles." 
 
 " Nine miles ! oh dear ! what shall I do ? they will be 
 so anxious about me." 
 
 "They?" 
 
 " My aunt and my cousin. I live with them about a mile 
 beyond Arthisham. I came out for a walk, and missed the 
 road home oh ! how can I get back ? will you please 
 direct me ? " 
 
 " But, my dear young lady, it will "be nearly dark before 
 you get back ; you will miss the road again. Dear, dear, 
 dear what an unfortunate occurrence ! " 
 
 " I think, sir," said poor Maye, striving hard not to burst 
 into tears, " that if you could send a servant a little way 
 with me, to see me on the right road, I can find my way 
 back. I am accustomed to going about alone." 
 
 " But you should have brought your cousin with you ; 
 pardon me, has it not been a little imprudent of you ? " 
 
 " My cousin is blind." 
 
 " Oh ! Forgive me, pray ; " and the old gentleman's face 
 was crossed by a look of perplexity as he glanced from the 
 young girl, looking so pretty and so piteous before him, to 
 his steaming horse. 
 
 " I tell you what, young lady ; I hardly know what to say 
 to you ; but if you will jump up here, we will go down to the 
 house, and whilst my man harnesses another horse to a 
 phaeton, my housekeeper will give you some tea you must 
 want it and then my man here will drive you home. No, I 
 will take no excuse ; I haven't any daughter of my own, but
 
 212 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 I should be very sorry, if I had one, to let her walk twenty 
 miles." 
 
 And so Maye got up, her weariness almost dazing her, a 
 feeling of infinite comfort and safety stealing over her as 
 she took her place at the old gentleman's side, and reached 
 the front door of the old house across the moat. 
 
 " What a lovely old place " she began, but her admira- 
 tion was cut short by the appearance of an eminently 
 respectable housekeeper, who, after giving her a searching 
 glance of strong disapproval, took her in charge and carried 
 her off, after a few words of explanation from her master, 
 to perform the mysterious rites of the brush and comb. 
 
 When she came down again to the great hall, whose pol- 
 ished floor was strewn with fine old English rugs, her unex- 
 pected host was ready to do, bachelorwise, the honours of 
 the tea-table, and whilst she chatted with him about her 
 adventures of the afternoon and the old-time pleasance in 
 which she found herself by such a lucky chance, she was 
 almost sorry when a most modern and comfortable phaeton 
 drove up to the door, and a pair of strawberry roans pawed 
 the gravel as if impatient to carry her away from this Eve- 
 less paradise. 
 
 Maye rose, and thanking her host, prepared to go. 
 
 " If you will not be bored by an old man's company, my 
 dear, will you let me drive you home? I shall be able to 
 reassure your aunt er ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Hawleigh." 
 
 " Exactly your aunt, Mrs. Hawleigh, on the subject of 
 your long absence. She must indeed be uneasy about you." 
 
 " I shall be delighted, I am sure, " said Maye, a feeling 
 coming over her that she liked this gruffly courteous old 
 Cornishman very much indeed. 
 
 And so they got into the phaeton, and her elderly Galahad 
 took the reins. 
 
 "I am quite gratified at the accident that has procured 
 for me the pleasure of your acquaintance, Miss Hawleigh, " 
 said he, as they reached the top of the hollow and began
 
 THE A UTOCRA T OF TRTHWWSTHPLLGG. 2 1 3 
 
 rolling swiftly down the drive she had walked up with such 
 very different feelings half an hour before. 
 
 " My name is not Hawleigh, " corrected she ; " Mrs. 
 Hawleigh is my aunt. My name is Trevethick, Maye Treve- 
 thick." 
 
 " Trevethick ! why, that's a Cornish name, " replied her 
 escort. 
 
 " Yes my father was a Cornishman." 
 
 " Was a Cornishman ? " 
 
 " Yes my father died in India five years ago." 
 
 " God bless my soul ! you are not going to tell me that 
 you are the daughter of Claude Trevethick, of the Indian 
 Civil Service." 
 
 " Yes did you know him ? " 
 
 " Know him ! Why, yes, very well and his wife too 
 she?" 
 
 " I am an orphan." 
 
 " Dear, dear, dear ! poor child ! But I'm right glad to 
 have met you, my dear, and am more than ever thankful that 
 you lost your way this afternoon. Dear, dear, dear ! I won- 
 der if you ever heard your father speak of Eric Trevanion of 
 
 Trthwwsthpllgg Manor ? " 
 
 ******* 
 
 Eric Trevanion ! Eric Trevanion ! She was driving 
 home with Eric's father " the Autocrat of Trthwwsthpllgg 
 Manor, " as she had so often heard Eric laughingly call him. 
 
 Her feelings at the strangeness of the situation the 
 varied emotions that it roused in her soul, combined with 
 the weariness that was beginning to take effect on her poor, 
 tired little body caused her almost a feeling of faintness, 
 and she sank into a reverie which Mr. Trevanion, taking it 
 for natural exhaustion, forebore to disturb with any attempt 
 at protracted conversation. So they drove along almost in 
 silence the old gentleman periodically ejaculating : 
 
 " Dear, dear, dear ! what a little world it is ! just think of 
 it ! how strange ! who would have dreamt of it ? Egad \
 
 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 it's like a novel. So you are Claude's child ? dear, dear, 
 dear ! " 
 
 And so they reached the cottage, where they found Mrs. 
 Hawleigh and Gabriel in an agony of apprehension, which 
 changed into a chorus of gratitude and satisfaction as Maye 
 disappeared, thanking " her preserver " once more for his 
 charity to her. 
 
 Mr. Trevanion remained but a few minutes, but before he 
 left he had heard the latest news of his son, whom he was 
 astounded to find was a friend of the family ; and he took 
 his departure, promising to return next day to inquire after 
 the maiden whom he had rescued so fortunately, and in 
 whom he expressed an interest that was more than paternal. 
 
 On the following day, true to his promise, and on many 
 days following, Mr. Trevanion came over to see the Haw- 
 leighs and Maye, till at last Gabriel laughingly declared that 
 he was getting quite jealous of Eric Trevanion, senior, and 
 should send for Eric Trevanion, junior, to keep his father in 
 order. It was a hard trial sometimes for Maye when old 
 Trevanion would pour forth his solitary woes to Mrs. Haw- 
 leigh, in the little cottage parlour, on the text of his son's 
 absence. 
 
 " He has a comfortable home waiting for him here, my 
 dear madam ; why doesn't he return to it ? Starving ! I've no 
 doubt he is ; he was never made to get his own living, and 
 never will. I don't ask much of him only that he should 
 come down here and live with me, part of the year, at any 
 rate ; and then, it's high time he married we Trevanions 
 have always married young, and never out of the county. 
 I don't know who that Miss Preault is, that he seems to be 
 so fond of, but I wont have my boy marrying an American 
 adventuress." 
 
 " Miss Preault is hardly an adventuress, " mildly expos- 
 tulated Mrs. Hawleigh. " She conies of a very fine old 
 American family of the South she is certainly very beauti- 
 ful, and very fond of Eric, " concluded she, guardedly. 
 
 " That is all very well that is as it may be, of course
 
 THE AUTOCKA T OF TRTHWWSTHPLLGG. 2 I 5 
 
 but a Trevanion must marry a Cornish girl. Trthwwsthpllgg 
 Manor has never been shared by a foreigner, and, please 
 God, it never will. Tell me did my son know your niece 
 before she became betrothed to your son ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, Mr. Trevanion. We have known Eric ever 
 since he came to London." 
 
 " Is it possible ? is it possible ? " 
 
 Maye rose and joined Gabriel on the veranda, where he 
 loved to sit for hours at a time, listening, he said, to the 
 world-sounds, differentiating, with all the super-sensitive 
 keenness of a blind man's ear, between the innumerable 
 murmurs that filled the quiet summer air. 
 
 Left alone with Mrs. Hawleigh, Mr. Trevanion returned 
 to the charge. 
 
 " Tell me, my dear Mrs. Hawleigh, " said he ; " what 
 truth is there in the stories they tell of my boy and this Miss 
 Daphne Preault ? What is the meaning of this infatuation 
 of his ? " 
 
 "Really, Mr. Trevanion, " was the still guarded answer, 
 " I cannot tell you more than you already know. They are 
 great friends and constant companions, and Eric seems very 
 anxious to marry her." 
 
 " Good heavens ! when he might have married your niece ! 
 I tell you, my dear madam " 
 
 " Hush ! "exclaimed Mrs. Hawleigh, in an undertone ; 
 " Gabriel will hear you ; his ears catch almost every sound 
 now; it is his keenest sense." 
 
 "Well, well!" returned Eric's father, in a lower tone, 
 " it's no use crying over spilt milk in that direction, and I 
 should be very sorry to see my boy rob another man of his 
 sweetheart ; but I confess to you that I'm very uneasy and 
 anxious about Eric. We are not children, my dear madam ; 
 my boy says nothing about marriage with this woman, and 
 there is only one interpretation to be put upon it. I know 
 he must be very poor, and sometimes I have a horrible 
 dread that he is indebted to her for material assistance. Will 
 you not help me ? I'm hasty and bad-tempered a little
 
 2l6 THE PROCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 too authoritative with him, perhaps ; can you not soften my 
 methods by supplementing them with yours ? can you not 
 help me to get him down here ? " 
 
 " I will try, Mr. Trevanion." 
 
 "And then I want you all to come over and live at 
 Trthwwsthpllgg until your son's sight is restored, or suffi- 
 ciently so to enable him to return home. You are cramped 
 and lonely here ; at Trthwwsthpllgg there are distractions of 
 all kinds, even for a blind man. Ah ! do not say no, my 
 dear madam ; it is an old fellow's whim, and it is for my 
 son's sake that I ask it of you." 
 
 So Trevanion pere wrote another and more urgent prayer 
 to his son, to leave his modern Circe, or Helen, or what- 
 ever she was to him ; and Mrs. Hawleigh wrote him a long 
 letter full of entreaties from Gabriel, who longed to have him 
 come and read to him, and talk to him as he had done in 
 the last days in Holland Street. But Eric was enthralled 
 by his own morbid sensitiveness, and had not the moral 
 courage to break the chain that was beginning to gall him 
 so fearfully. 
 
 His honour, rooted in dishonour stood, 
 And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true ! " 
 
 Well, well, he was not so very much to blame he was 
 only a man, after all, and I never knew a man who was 
 morally as strong as the weakest woman I ever met. 
 This is a fact which has been remarked by far pro- 
 founder observers than I, and the explanation has yet to 
 be found for it. I suppose that it is the compensation that 
 is given to woman for her physical inferiorities and infirm- 
 ities ; perhaps it is in consequence of this physical inferi- 
 ority that she is always more or less on the defensive, and 
 has realized the advantages of delay and patience. At any 
 rate the man has yet to be born who can scheme towards 
 an end, can wait behind his defences, can act with the piti- 
 less directness, and if necessary bear the mental and 
 physical agony that every woman can bear not in conse-
 
 THE AUTOCRA T OF TRTHWWSTHPLLGG 2 I 7 
 
 quenceof her education or determination, but simply because 
 she is a woman ! Woman always acts on her convictions, 
 unless she is in love ; and she is nearly always right to do so. 
 This is doubtless why women always ask for a reason, and 
 never listen to one. This is, however, by the way ; let us 
 return to our story. 
 
 One of Mr. Trevanion's greatest delights was to come or 
 send over for Mrs. Hawleigh, Gabriel, and Maye, and keep 
 them at Trthwwsthpllgg Manor all day, sending them back 
 the last thing at night ; and Gabriel seemed to revel in the 
 quiet that filled the hollow round the old manor-house. His 
 host had fitted up, for the special purpose of receiving the 
 family, a boudoir that had belonged to Mrs Trevanion, who 
 had died when Eric was quite a child, a little room situ- 
 ated in an angle of the house, with a conservatory leading 
 out of it ; and in this conservatory he had arranged a lounge 
 shrouded by ferns and high plants, where Gabriel could lie 
 when he felt weary, revelling in the moist, soft perfume 
 which filled the place. There he would remain for hours, 
 as he did on the verandah at the cottage, whilst Mrs. 
 Hawleigh and Maye explored the hidden treasures of the 
 grand old building, from haunted garret to subterranean 
 passage leading nowhere, below the moat. The whole 
 place was a perfect paradise to Maye, who was always dis- 
 covering new nooks and beauties in it, and in her frankly 
 expressed appreciation, came nearer and nearer to the old 
 man s heart as the days collected into weeks. Even the old 
 housekeeper got over her suspicion of this new face about 
 the house and Mr. Trevanion used laughingly to call her 
 "the fair Chatelaine of Trthwwsthpllgg." It may also be 
 mentioned that Maye had given further evidence of her 
 Cornish origin by being the only person about the place, 
 with the exception of Mr. Trevanion, who could say " Trthw- 
 wsthpllgg " quickly, without premeditation, and without im- 
 mediately suffering from paralysis of the tongue. 
 
 " I envy you your children," said their host to Mrs. 
 Hawleigh ; " upon my soul, I envy you. I wish my boy were
 
 2l8 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 more like yours, and I wish Maye Trevethick were going to 
 be my daughter-in-law instead of yours." 
 
 And Mrs. Hawleigh would laugh it off, though sometimes 
 she threw an anxious glance in the direction of the pair as 
 they walked round the moat arm-in-arm, Maye chattering 
 gayly and describing it all to Gabriel ; he with his blind brown 
 eyes fixed on the darkness before him, whilst he smiled at 
 his conductress and played with the fingers of the hand that 
 held his own. 
 
 They had been living happy in this new phase of their 
 exile for about three weeks when an anxious day dawned for 
 Mrs. Hawleigh. Dr. Richardson, Gabriel's London phy- 
 sician, had determined to come down to Dartmoor to report 
 on the progress of his patient towards recovery. It had been 
 almost impossible to say, before the Hawleighs left town, 
 what Gabriel's chances really were. His health was so im- 
 paired by the shock that a perfect diagnosis was almost im- 
 possible, and Dr. Richardson had promised to come down, 
 when the grand air of the moor should have had its effect 
 upon Gabriel's bodily health, to make a new examination of 
 his eyes. The long-looked-for visit was now expected, and 
 it had been arranged that Maye should spend the day at 
 Trthwwsthpllgg Manor, returning only after the departure 
 of Dr. Richardson in the evening for London. He could 
 not stay over until the following morning. 
 
 Accordingly, "the Autocrat of Trthwwsthpllgg" had 
 driven over early and carried her off, taking her for a long 
 drive round the neighborhood before they arrived at the 
 manor-house for lunch. 
 
 In the early afternoon the old gentleman and the young 
 girl were sitting together on the lawn within the moat, when 
 suddenly he startled her by saying : 
 
 " Have you any definite notion when you are going to be 
 married, my dear ? " 
 
 " No," she had replied, suddenly awakened from a delicious 
 reverie about nothing at all.
 
 THE A UTOCRA T OF TR THWWSTHPLL GG. 2ig 
 
 " Supposing this blindness of Gabriel Hawleigh's should 
 prove to be really incurable after all ? " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " In that case would you still become his wife ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Mr. Trevanion. How could you doubt it for 
 a moment ? " 
 
 " And what would you live upon, my dear ? " 
 
 " I I don't know," faltered Maye, helplessly. " I never 
 think about it." 
 
 " But surely you must think about it, my child. Do not 
 think me inquisitive or impertinent, but I think I understood 
 Mrs. Hawleigh to say that the only means you have con- 
 sist of her annuity 'and what Gabriel made by his painting." 
 
 " Yes that is true." 
 
 " And if Gabriel can never paint again ? Supposing 
 (which heaven forbid !) Mrs. Hawleigh should die ? What 
 would you young people do ? " 
 
 "I I don't know," answered the girl. "I can paint a 
 little, and I can play the piano. I could teach and and 
 I suppose we should get along somehow," she concluded, 
 vaguely. 
 
 A long pause ensued, which was broken at last by Mr. 
 Trevanion saying, as if to himself : 
 
 " What an affliction ! what an affliction ! for an artist of 
 all men, too ! Just as he had planted his foot on the first 
 rung of the ladder of fame to be blinded, with only his art 
 as a means of support ! Well well ! how capricious For- 
 tune is ! There is my son Eric ; he might be rich and 
 prosperous, and can see as well as you and I can ; whilst 
 poor Gabriel, who depends on his eyes for a living, is 
 blinded at what is practically the very commencement of his 
 career." 
 
 " Oh ! do not speak of it, 1 beg of you, Mr. Trevanion 
 it is all so sad so sad and so hopeless." 
 
 " Well there ! I won't say any more about it. But 
 Maye, my dear child forgive me if I say that if you could 
 have loved my boy, and he had been worthy of you, I should
 
 22O THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 have been the happiest man in Cornwall nay, in the world ! 
 If only you could have loved him ! " 
 
 If only she could have loved him ! Ah yi ! 
 
 And deep in her heart Maye knew that the love of her 
 whole life had been given, long ago, to the son of the man 
 who sat by her side pleading for his boy who had never 
 known and asking nothing better than to end his days in 
 his beautiful old manor-house, whilst the woman by his side 
 laid her touch upon everything there to brighten it, and the 
 old oak-panelled corridors echoed with the laughter of his 
 grandchildren. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The drive back was accomplished almost in silence. Mr. 
 Trevanion left her at the garden gate, promising to drive 
 over in the morning to hear the news about Gabriel. 
 
 The news about Gabriel ! Dr. Richardson had come and 
 gone ; had gone away looking very grave, and leaving with 
 Mrs. Hawleigh only a very slender remnant of the hope she 
 had brought with her from Holland Street. He was to hold 
 another consultation with the eminent oculist in London, 
 and in a week or ten days, at most, was to write Mrs. 
 Hawleigh his final opinion and Verdict on the case of 
 Gabriel, her son. 
 
 This was the news which the laird of Trthwwsthpllgg 
 heard next morning when he came over to the cottage 
 news which he received with genuine expressions of grief. 
 Only Gabriel seemed unaffected by his lot he wandered 
 about the house quietly as heretofore, now and then playing 
 a few bars on his violin, which lay ever ready to his hand in 
 the little parlour, or strolling out into the garden among the 
 flowers, which he had come to kno-w by their perfume and 
 touch. 
 
 Before he left, Mr. Trevanion said : 
 
 " By-the-by, in my concern at receiving your news I almost 
 forgot to give you mine. Eric, my boy, has at last yielded 
 to our prayers he is coming down to Trthwwsthpllgg. I 
 am going to meet him at the station on my way home."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ATTRACTION AND REPULSION. 
 
 " IT is a long lane that has no turning," said a philosopher 
 whose name is, I believe, lost to the posterity by which he 
 is quoted. The critically-disposed may say that the turning 
 is of little use to the traveller if he does not reach it before 
 he falls from very weariness. Another proverbial philoso- 
 pher has said that, " When things are at their worst, they are 
 sure to mend." This dogmatist had more reason than the 
 other, and if he thought of it at all before he said it, he had 
 probably observed that things mend when they are at their 
 worst, because it is then and not until then, that, throwing 
 everything aside, and sacrificing our feelings to the instinct 
 of self-preservation, we are forced to make the supreme 
 effort which, made earlier in the game, would have obviated 
 the progression of " things " to their possible worst. It must 
 not be supposed that I recommend the utilization of the 
 supreme effort one moment before it becomes absolutely 
 necessary ; on the contrary, nee deus intersit, dignus ni 
 vindice nodus, as the Classic says. Never despite the 
 axiom do to-day what can possibly be put off till to-morrow. 
 Procrastination, as I have before remarked in these pages, 
 is the soul of business, notwithstanding the oratorical 
 assertion of the copy-book to the contrary. 
 
 Things were not yet at their very worst for Eric Trevan- 
 ion. It was fortunate for him and for my story that he did 
 not know this. Had he imagined that it was possible for 
 him to be more supremely wretched than he was when we 
 left him last, he would assuredly have killed himself. His 
 feeling for Daphne Pre'ault was only one of the profoundest 
 pity a pity that was reflected upon himself. 
 
 221
 
 222 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 Eric Trevanion was pitiably poor : he had rebelled against 
 receiving assistance from Daphne, and was living, miserably, 
 on what he could make by his pen. His pride being crushed, 
 he no longer wrote in the high-flown, debonair style of the 
 scholar and man of the world : he had turned his talent to 
 baser uses, and had made it pay him, inadequately to his bare 
 needs, but still it paid him. His poems, which were sicklied 
 o'er with the stupidity and incomprehensibility of the decen- 
 nium in which he lived, came home to him like curses, send 
 them where he would : at length he had made a holocaust of 
 them, and in sheer cynicism had scribbled off a set of rhymes 
 of social small-talk, with a slang refrain. These he sent to 
 a society paper, which accepted them, paid for them at once, 
 and asked him to write more. An idyllic story which his 
 soul had loved more and more every time a magazine editor 
 returned it to him, he had ruthlessly cut to pieces, inter- 
 polating a series of incidents that turned it into a glaring 
 advertisement of a patent medicine. He sent the MS. to 
 the proprietors of said specific, and received by return of 
 post a cheque which cleared his landwoman's scorbutic physi- 
 ognomy of the scowl it had worn for a month past. With the 
 exception of his lodging-bill he kept out of debt, and for the 
 most pertinent of all reasons he could not get into it. 
 Things got bad by degrees and beautifully worse, and Eric 
 became a literary hack. The position had one advantage : 
 the occupation of his days, spent among his kind in the 
 Reading-room of the British Museum, took him far from 
 Daphne, who idled away her life in Holland Street in 
 practically no companionship save that of Mahinoure du 
 Peyral, with whom she had struck up an intimacy that 
 caused Eric a mingled feeling of fear, jealousy, and disgust. 
 It seemed to him that dn the society of the penniless horde 
 of scribblers who practically lived in the "Museum, he 
 breathed a purer atmosphere than that which filled the 
 perfumed studio in Holland Street. 
 
 It was at this period of his history that I first got to know 
 him well, for I also was one of the gang that day after day
 
 ATTRACTION AND REPULSION. 223 
 
 breathed that invigorating atmosphere of book-dust, penury, 
 and ink. We adopted Eric as one of us, for he was as poor 
 as the poorest of the crew, and to-day, when we are most of 
 us respectable members of society, we often talk together 
 of what Theophile Gautier called, with perfect truth, "those 
 happy days when we were so miserable ! " 
 
 And our misery was happy. What a merry crowd we 
 were ! There are men whom I meet to-day, rich, respected, 
 and celebrated, who were then poor, disreputable, and 
 obscure. I remember one day in particular, when a man 
 who now commands whatever price he likes to ask, for any- 
 thing he writes, came down to the Museum, his haggard 
 face irradiated with a smile of triumph he had not tasted 
 food for forty-eight hours, and I don't believe that the lot 
 of us possessed a pound between us. We crowded round 
 him to hear the news. He had a commission to write a 
 special article for a leading review. He had received five 
 pounds on account, and was to receive fifteen on delivery of 
 the manuscript and the manuscript was to be delivered 
 next day. He was an incorrigible idler, and we banded 
 together to make him knock off the article, inviting our- 
 selves to dine with him on the following night. Then we 
 left him alone, and in the afternoon I went to his seat to 
 find out how he had got on. He was entrenched behind 
 a fortification of reference-books and authorities ; and the 
 article well ! not a line was written ; he had spent the day 
 in writing a Latin ode in exquisite elegiacs, which I still 
 possess (it hangs, framed, on the wall of my study), on the 
 contrast between the colour of the Superintendent's hair 
 and Fitzgerald Molloy's neck-tie. He went home that even- 
 ing without having approached the subject of his article, 
 and we were in despair. He owed me five shillings, and 
 hope had been telling me a flattering tale all day, to the 
 effect that I was going to get it back. Next evening, at six 
 o'clock, he took down to the office of the Revieiv a posi- 
 tive masterpiece, which practically laid the foundation of his 
 present fame; and "the gang" dined with him at Ram-
 
 224 *'UE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 pazzi's in Soho, and adjourned for an all-night sitting at his 
 rooms in Great Ormond Street, Bloomsbury. That is how 
 we lived, and Eric Trevanion with us. 
 
 We soon " licked him into shape," and gradually he sank 
 with us from literature to journalism, as a preliminary 
 towards rising from journalism to literature by the ladder of 
 advertisement. He was not quite a stranger among us, for 
 I had met him in Holland Street, and Bernard Rawlinson 
 was intermittently one of the crew. It was through him 
 that Eric joined us, and it was to that versatile genius that 
 he owed his first lesson in practical journalism. Eric had 
 been sitting idle at his seat all the morning, when Rawlin- 
 son came and asked him why he didn't write, instead of 
 gazing on vacancy in search of inspiration. 
 
 " I have nothing to write about that anybody wants to 
 read," replied he, dolefully. 
 
 " Well, what of it ? " replied the Bohemian ; " write about 
 nothing." 
 
 " What bosh ! " exclaimed Trevanion. " I defy anybody 
 to write about nothing." 
 
 " Defy anybody, if you like," was the answer, " but don't 
 defy me ; '' and, so saying, he sat down and wrote the fol- 
 lowing, which, short and fabricless, was completely to the 
 point, and sold for one pound ten ! 
 
 "NOTHING!" 
 " A STUDY OF MODERN JOURNALISTIC ART." 
 
 " A BOY whom I left in a little country town, beloved of 
 parents who were quite unparentally charming, wrote to me 
 a few months ago, and asked my advice as to whether he 
 should give up his obscure and uninteresting, but compara- 
 tively lucrative position on a stool in a provincial bank, to 
 embrace the profession of letters, to matriculate in journal- 
 ism and graduate as a literary man. I sent him at once 
 Balzac's ' Bible of the Journalist,' to wit, the two volumes 
 of the ' Illusions Perdues ' and ' Splendeurs et Miseres des
 
 A TTRA C TION A ND REPULSION. 22$ 
 
 Courtisanes,' accompanying this gift with two grains of pure 
 aconitine in a gelatine capsule. I instructed him to read 
 the first, and then, if he still felt himself endowed with a 
 constitution, mental and physical, that warranted him in 
 living or dying on what he could get out of letters, to find a 
 spot where it was not untidy to die, to lie down, and swallow 
 the alkaloid. 
 
 " He wrote back shortly afterwards, returning me the 
 poison and announcing that he had decided to follow the 
 fortunes of Lucien de Rubempre, rather than be warned 
 by the fate of Balzac's hero. In vain I pointed out to him 
 the fact that nowadays Coralies and Mile, de Grandlieus are 
 scarce, if not an extinct race ; he abandoned his regular 
 hours and salary, and began to starve on the potential pro- 
 ceeds of precariously launched articles that interested no 
 one, and that editors betrayed a tendency to refuse consist- 
 ently to buy. Nay more; so badly was he bitten, so pro- 
 foundly did he develop the hydrophobia of literature, that, 
 realizing his small possessions, he came up to London, like 
 a modern Lucien, and proceeded to starve in the great 
 metropolis. 
 
 " Proud as Lucifer, he confided his penury to no one ; it 
 had no outward and visible sign save in the poverty of his 
 lodgings, to which he admitted never a soul ; and he died 
 in my arms a fortnight ago, of combined starvation and 
 nervous prostration. 
 
 " Why ? Ah ! that is the point. He died because he had 
 nothing to write about, and yet could not write about it. 
 He died of starvation, here in Bloomsbury because he 
 could not write unless he had a subject to write upon. 
 
 " The man who cannot write about nothing at a moment's 
 notice cannot make a living as a journalist. 
 
 " Priggish societies with ridiculous names have met and 
 discussed learnedly if chaotically 'The Nothingness of 
 Everything ' : a literary coterie that will establish the ' Every- 
 thingness of Nothing ' has yet to rise, Phoenix-like, from the 
 ashes of unsuccessful journalists. It is a solemn and an
 
 226 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 undeniable fact, that unless one can write a column on Noth- 
 ing at all, and do it more or less attractively, one has no 
 right to attach one's self to the permanent staff of a journal 
 in point of fact, one can't get there. 
 
 " It is the age of journalistic commonplace ; one must 
 idealize commonplace trifles, or one cannot expect to be 
 understood. This state of things arises from the bias/ con- 
 dition of the modern reader's faculties. The literary exalta- 
 tion of Nothing is the only pabulum which the debilitated 
 intellects of a large class of readers to-day are capable of 
 assimilating. Therefore let us establish schools for the de- 
 velopment and study of mental anaemia, that a new genera- 
 tion of writers may arise in our midst, whose works shall be 
 'easily understanded of the people.' because their end is the 
 glorification of Nothing at All. 
 
 " [Signed] BERNARD RAWLINSON." 
 
 " There," said the picturesque Bernard, as he handed 
 over the manuscript with a smile, " that is how to write about 
 Nothing. Go, thou. and do likewise." 
 
 But Eric found it very hard to "go and do likewise." 
 He went through the whole gamut of literary insuccess. 
 Often editors cultivated men would be charmed by the 
 epigrammatic way in which he would present the most unin- 
 teresting matter, and, on the spur of the moment, would ac- 
 cept his manuscripts; but he scanned their journals in vain 
 in the hope of seeing himself in print, and finally, when he 
 called upon them or wrote on the subject, they would return 
 him his work with something like shame, " regretting that 
 want of space prevented them from utilizing his articles, for 
 the offer of which, however, they thanked him, and re- 
 mained faithfully his," etc., etc., etc. ; and at the conclusion 
 of his day's contemplative quietude in the Museum, he would 
 return to Holland Street, almost dreading to enter the studio 
 which had become associated in his mind with so many sweet 
 and bitter thoughts. 
 
 One evening, when he arrived at Daphne Preault's, a sur-
 
 A TTKA CT1ON AND REPULSION. 227 
 
 prise awaited him. He had divested himself of his impedi- 
 menta in the hall, and penetrated to the studio. As he did 
 so, a man who was sitting chatting with Daphne and Mah- 
 moure rose and held out his hand. 
 
 "What!" he exclaimed; "Dr. Van BoomkampJ this is 
 indeed an unexpected pleasure." 
 
 " I was waiting for you," returned the psychologist, scruti- 
 nizing him keenly through his gold pince-nez. " Miss Pre'- 
 ault and Madame du Peyral are deep in business matters. 
 I have hoped to meet you again, and to-night my hope is 
 realized. Will you do me the pleasure of taking dinner 
 with me at my hotel, and we can continue the conversation 
 that we began at Dr. P 's ? " 
 
 Eric looked at Daphne, and she answered his look by 
 saying : " Yes, Eric. Madame du Peyral and I have some 
 important business to discuss, and some correspondence to 
 go through. We shall be glad to have you out of the way, 
 tres cher" 
 
 "In that case," said Eric, "I am quite at your service, 
 Dr. Van Boomkamp ; " and so it was arranged. 
 
 Towards seven o'clock the two men took their departure, 
 and left the two women together. 
 
 It was not until they found themselves seated .comfort- 
 ably after dinner in Dr. Van Boomkamp's room at the Hotel 
 Metropole, that they approached the subject which was of 
 the deepest interest to both of them. It was the American 
 who opened the conversation by saying : 
 
 " Miss Preault and Madame du Peyral seem to have taken 
 a great fancy to one another, do they not ? " 
 
 "Yes it is a very strange sympathy, and one that I can- 
 not understand," replied Trevanion. " As you know, doubt- 
 less, without my telling you, Miss Preault and I have been, 
 and I trust are still, very great friends. I know her life very 
 well for the last four years. Until now no woman has ever 
 been her intimate friend ; this Madame du Peyral seems to 
 possess a strange fascination over her."
 
 228 THE PRIX CESS DAPHNE. 
 
 11 Strange yes to the casual observer, but to the psychol- 
 ogist not so strange. You are, I know, the intimate friend 
 of Miss Preault. Owing to circumstances into which it is 
 not necessary to enter, I know a great deal concerning Ma- 
 dame du Peyral, and their friendship interests whilst it fails 
 to astonish me. It is of this that I wish to speak to 
 you." 
 
 " You knew Paul du Peyral ? " 
 
 " I saw him die." 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " You doubtless remember my recounting a curious psy- 
 chological case at Dr. P 's on the occasion of our first 
 
 meeting? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " The man and woman in New York, to whom I alluded, 
 were Paul and Madame du Peyral." 
 
 " And the woman in Europe ? " 
 
 "Was Miss Daphne Pre'ault." 
 
 " Good God ! She said something to this effect herself, 
 when I repeated your story." 
 
 " In all my experience with the workings of mental 
 science I have never encountered a stranger case. Acci- 
 dent has- gathered all the threads into my hands, and I have 
 postponed my visit to Paris for the purpose of watching the 
 denouement of the drama, for drama it is, in every accepta- 
 tion of the term." 
 
 " What do you want of me ? " 
 
 " Well, it is needless to say that whatever you will be 
 good enough to say to me, will remain under the seal of a 
 professional confidence. I want you to tell me all you know 
 of Miss Preault of her life from the moment you became 
 er connected; of her mental state, of her physical ill- 
 ness everything." 
 
 " So be it." 
 
 And Eric gave to the American doctor, who listened in- 
 tently, every now and then making an entry in his note-book
 
 A TTKA C TIOiV A ND REPULSION. 22$ 
 
 or asking for a date, a complete account of the circum- 
 stances which had puzzled, had frightened him, with regard 
 to the woman who, before her most serious attack, had been 
 "The Princess Daphne." 
 
 At the conclusion of his recital, he said : 
 
 " Now, Dr. Van Boomkamp, I have been eminently 
 explicit with you ; may I ask for an exchange of confidence ? 
 What is your explanation of these phenomena ? " 
 
 Schuyler Van Boomkamp rose and paced the room in 
 silence for a few moments. Finally, re-seating himself, he 
 spoke as follows : 
 
 " The case turns upon a strange coincidence of personality 
 existing between Miss Pre'ault and Paul du Peyral. She 
 was almost what the Germans call his doppelganger, and on 
 his death his personality became merged in hers." 
 
 "Then?" 
 
 " Miss Daphne Preault is Paul du Peyral." 
 
 " For heaven's sake, explain yourself ! " 
 
 " Psychological science, founded as it is upon neurology, 
 despite the labours of Georget, of Charcot, of Bell, of Bain, 
 of Kollmann, and a host of others, is practically in its 
 infancy. Mesmerism is a phenomenon which the condi- 
 tions of its existence render very difficult to examine 
 scientifically. Here we have two people, who, though sep- 
 arated by half a hemisphere, were practically identical with 
 one another, speaking psychologically. Through the medium 
 of this strange foreign woman their souls found one another, 
 and little by little Paul du Peyral transferred his psychic force 
 to Miss Daphne Preault. The completeness with which 
 this was done was due to the fact that, springing from a 
 common ancestry, they have, by a freak of heredity, " thrown 
 back," as it were. The exact physical process it is impos- 
 sible to describe the result has been apparent in what we 
 will call, for the sake of definition, Miss Preault's fits of 
 obsession. These occurred coincidentally with Paul du 
 Peyral's experiments. The culminating phenomenon oc- 
 curred with the death of du Peyral : his illness was an-
 
 230 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 swered, as it were, by Miss Preault's, and at the moment 
 that he died he fancied that he saw her ; at the moment of her 
 apparent* death his soul seems to have sought hers, and was 
 seen, or apparently seen, by the black woman Clytemnestra, 
 who has always been closely allied with her. His wife, by- 
 reason of his repeated experiments with her, has become 
 strongly identified with him, but his soul sought that of his 
 alter ego Miss Preault. He was a man of little or no 
 principle ; in Miss Preault the good and the bad seem to 
 have been about equally divided ; the good was dying out in 
 her when its place was taken by the salient features of his 
 personality. She lived again with his soul, but the strain 
 has been too great, she is overburdened by a vitality from 
 which she cannot escape, and which she cannot bear ; his 
 wife sapped his physical attributes, Miss Pre'ault his mental 
 ones. They are both disordered, ill-regulated, mentally 
 diseased in consequence ; Miss Preault is, and has been, in 
 a state of physical and mental hysteria ever since this trans- 
 ference took place ; Madame du Peyral, robbed, to use a 
 nautical simile, of her steering apparatus, her guiding princi- 
 ple, has been vainly seeking for it ever since. She has found 
 it ; she though she hardly realizes it herself fancies that 
 Miss Pre'ault is well, she recognizes in her new friend the 
 vitality, the attributes, the personality of her dead husband." 
 
 " Explain yourself ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that the position requires the most careful 
 supervision, for though they neither of them know it, and 
 though orthodox doctors would be at a loss to admit it, both 
 these women, when in the presence of one another, are 
 mad!" 
 
 " My God how awful ! " 
 
 " Not awful, but deeply interesting." 
 
 "They must be separated, of course." 
 
 " No for that would probably either kill them, or drive 
 them dangerously insane in the ordinary sense of the term." 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " They must quarrel, and part naturally."
 
 A TTR ACTION AND REPULSION. 23 1 
 
 " But how can that be brought about ? " 
 
 " It will bring itself about in the ordinary course of events. 
 They will probably quarrel over you. When that takes 
 place, Madame du Peyral will pursue her journey to Greece, 
 which has been interrupted by this meeting, and I hope that 
 Miss Preault will regain her health and ordinary mental 
 equilibrium." 
 
 It was close upon midnight when the two men parted, 
 and Eric trudged home save the mark ! to Holland 
 Street. 
 
 Seeing a light burning in Miss Pre'ault's vestibule, he went 
 in, and passed through to the studio, where he supposed he 
 should find her alone. 
 
 The Creole was not alone. As Eric stood motionless in 
 the doorway of the studio he saw Daphne lying in a lazy, 
 languorous attitude upon the lounge, whilst Mahmoure' du 
 Peyral sat by hej| side, her arms twined round her, looking 
 into her eyes. Daphne was playing lazily with the masses 
 of Mahmoure's hair, which she had unbound, and which were 
 floating in tawny billows all over her as she lay among the 
 cushions. Neither woman spoke, but the silence was far 
 more eloquent than words and Eric, as he stood looking at 
 them, felt his heart swell with a dull, impotent rage against 
 this Greek who had come and thrust herself between him 
 and the woman he had loved. The slight sound he made in 
 entering was unnoticed by Mahmoure, who had her back 
 turned to the door, but Daphne opened a little wider her 
 half-closed eyes and said : 
 
 " Ah ! Eric. Is that you ? I didn't suppose you would 
 come in again to-night." 
 
 At the sound of her voice and her words Mahmoure 
 started away, but Daphne, restraining her by winding her 
 arms about the supple little figure, said : 
 
 " Don't go away, dear. He isn't going to stay. Eric, man 
 cher, come in the morning, will you ? Madame du Peyral is 
 staying here with me to-night. We did not get through our 
 work till it was too late for her to think of going home alone."
 
 232 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 Eric turned and left the studio. He had not spoken a 
 word since he entered. Mahmoure du Peyral had not 
 turned her head in his direction. He was glad of it. 
 
 Arrived at his own rooms he spent an hour feverishly 
 pacing up and down, reviewing the position and criticising 
 himself, nothing extenuating, nothing hiding. Week by 
 week, month by month, he lived over again the period of his 
 liaison with the fascinating Creole. It had begun with her 
 song at Gabriel Hawleigh's Bohemian soiree ; it had ended 
 ended ? with Dr. Schuyler Van Boomkamp's precis of the 
 case of the Princess Daphne, and its corroboration before his 
 very eyes half an hour ago. Hardly more than half a year, 
 but in that time what multifold experiences had been his ! 
 Every month seemed an age as he looked back upon the 
 time : he had passed through every phase of worldly con- 
 dition and every nuance of the thing called " love." And 
 what had he now ? From affluence he had ^llen to poverty 
 sordid, grinding poverty and from passionate adoration 
 to a feeling very near akin to profound disgust. Daphne 
 Preault had declined from her altitude as queen of his soul, 
 to a weird, monstrous, unnatural problem ; and as he thought 
 of the interview next day great beads of perspiration started 
 to his forehead. What would the morrow bring forth ? He 
 felt that, before another sun would set, his future course 
 would be definitively shaped and in what direction ? He 
 could not tell he dared not surmise. 
 
 He passed a restless night, and next morning waited, 
 watching the door of the cottage opposite for Madame du 
 Peyral's departure. At length it came, and ten minutes 
 later he confronted Daphne Preault in her studio. 
 
 " I am glad you are alone," he began ; " I have been 
 watching for that woman to leave you. I have something 
 serious to discuss with you." 
 
 " Have you ? " replied she, her womanly scent giving her 
 premonition of a " scene," and drawing herself into a position 
 of aggressive attention. " If you have a great deal to say
 
 A TTKA C TION AND REPULSION. 233 
 
 you had better begin at once, for she will be back here 
 very soon." 
 
 " Back here ? " 
 
 " Yes I have persuaded her to come and stay with me 
 for a few days perhaps till she leaves England." 
 
 " Oh ! indeed ! then that makes my way clear before 
 me." 
 
 Daphne Pre'ault had selected a cigarette from her case, 
 and, lighting it, had settled herself in the lounge, like some 
 beautiful wild animal, crouching on the defensive, whilst 
 Eric stood looking down at her. 
 
 "Daphne," he began, his voice growing stronger and his 
 manner more determined as he went on, " you and I must 
 distinctly understand one another. Our love for one an- 
 other is not, alas ! what it was, and sooner or later we 
 must speak plainly better to-day than to-morrow ! " 
 
 " Certainly, my dear Eric go on." 
 
 "You have made life very beautiful for me all these 
 months, and from the bottom of my soul I am grateful, 
 dear ; but there should be no question of gratitude between 
 us. A love such as ours has been must live upon itself 
 alone by itself, and of itself ; it cannot decrease, it can 
 only change ; and once changed God help us ! it is ex- 
 tinguished. I have asked you to be my wife. I love you 
 still, in spite of the troubles that have come between us ; 
 if you love me in return, I ask you again to share my life 
 with me, and proclaim ourselves one before all men." 
 
 " My dear boy why should I ? " 
 
 " For every reason in the world for your purity, for my 
 honour, for our happiness." 
 
 " But, my dear Eric, I am quite content to remain as I 
 am free unrestrained Bohemian. Love is for me an 
 ecstasy I will never make it a bondage." 
 
 " Then the love you offer me is not the love I ask of you ! 
 It is not love at all it is mere passion." 
 
 " Call it what you will," replied the woman ; "it suits me 
 as it is."
 
 234 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 "And you would insult the name of love by giving it to an 
 emotion that is capable of no sacrifice ? " 
 
 " Sacrifice ! have I made no sacrifice already ? What 
 would you have of me now ? " 
 
 " First and foremost that you should give up the friend- 
 ship of this du Peyral woman. It is infamous, disgraceful, 
 unworthy of you. Then that you should come with me as 
 my wife somewhere, anywhere, to your own America, if you 
 will but to a spot where no one shall be able to whisper 
 about us as they do here." 
 
 " Really, Eric I think it is as well to be as frank with 
 you as you are with me. Your programme does not suit me. 
 I like you I am rich enough to indulge my likes or dislikes 
 you shall share my home, my fortune, if you will but I 
 will not be bound down by any laws. And mark me I will 
 not be dictated to. As for Madame du Peyral or ' the 
 du Peyral woman,' as you contemptuously call her she at- 
 tracts and she pleases me. I shall keep up my acquaintance 
 with her in any form I please." 
 
 " Very well, then," rejoined Eric, turning a trifle paler 
 and looking yet more determined ; "you will have to choose 
 between her and me." 
 
 " Exactly ! " 
 
 " And your choice is ? " 
 
 " Mon cher ami she has all the charm of novelty ! " 
 
 " Novelty ! Good God ! " 
 
 " Yes novelty. If you must know the truth, you weary 
 me with your sermons on honour, your tirades upon virtue 
 and all that. You took me as I am." 
 
 " No as you were ! " 
 
 "Well, then," exclaimed Daphne, her eyes flaming at last, 
 " I am changed you are changed we are changed we are 
 tired of one another let us part ! I prefer this woman to 
 you there ! you wanted the truth you have it ! " 
 
 " Great heavens ! is it possible ? " 
 
 " Not only possible, but existent. Let this be an end of 
 it let us square our accounts and part."
 
 A TTR ACTION AND REPULSION. 2$$ 
 
 "Our accounts?" Eric turned a vivid crimson, and then 
 became deathly pale. He thought that she referred to the 
 material issues between them, and as he turned away, he 
 added, in a broken voice, " True, I owe you money as well as 
 gratitude you are right to remind me of it ; though I never 
 forget it, night or day." 
 
 It was an insult ; an accidental one, it is true, for she had 
 not dreamt that he would so construe her expression. Un- 
 der its sting, she turned upon him and exclaimed : 
 
 " Very well, then since you reduce it to that level, so be 
 it. Give in to your father ; he will welcome his prodigal 
 son, and sell his fatted calf to pay your debts. This is the 
 end of everything between us I despise you, Eric Tre- 
 vanion ! " 
 
 "You do well to despise me, Miss Preault," he returned, 
 bitterly " I am a despicable object, and you have a right 
 to tell me of it." 
 
 What she would have replied to this taunt he never knew, 
 for at that moment Clytie appeared at the door of the 
 studio announcing " Madame du Peyral." 
 
 It was the culminating point of the scene. Eric recovered 
 his composure as he bowed to Mahmoure, and, taking his 
 hat, turned to Daphne, who was greeting the new-comer as 
 if they had been parted for years. He said : 
 
 " I will say good-bye now, Miss Preault ; I will send you 
 over a note during the afternoon ; " and so saying he bowed 
 and left the studio. 
 
 Mahmoure' turned after him an enquiring look. 
 
 " Tiens /" said she; "there has been an unpleasantness ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You have quarrelled ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " About ? " 
 
 " You."
 
 236 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 A couple of hours later Daphne received a note from Eric 
 Trevanion : it was short, and read as follows : 
 
 " I write merely to say good-bye the scene of this morn- 
 ing leaves no other course open to me to us. I leave for 
 Cornwall to-morrow. We have a few little matters to settle; 
 I think that I have them clearly stated ; you shall hear from 
 me from home in a day or two. I thank you from the 
 bottom of my heart for all your kindness to me, and should 
 you ever want a friend you can count upon me. In any 
 other capacity good-bye. ERIC TREVANION." 
 
 With a little laugh Daphne handed the note to Mahmoure. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the latter, " now I am really happy. Do you 
 know, chere amie, I loathed that man from the first moment I 
 set eyes upon him."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " SPLENDIDE MENDAX ! " 
 
 THE return of Eric to Trthwwsthpllgg was an occasion of 
 profound rejoicing to two people, and of anxiety which bor- 
 dered on misery to two others. The former were his father 
 and Gabriel ; the latter were Mrs. Hawleigh and Maye. 
 Poor Eric, broken in spirit, and bereft of all his old careless 
 merriment, saw only the pleasure that his presence gave to 
 Trevanion pere and the blind boy. He was too recently 
 arrived from the scenes ^of the deepest agony he had ever 
 suffered, to take note of the care with which Maye avoided 
 being alone with him, a care that was almost frustrated by 
 Mrs. Hawleigh in her endeavours to the same end. The 
 time for which the cottage had been taken had elapsed, and 
 it had been impossible to resist Mr. Trevanion's prayer that 
 its inmates should move over en masse to Trthwwsthpllgg. 
 Mrs. Hawleigh and Maye were strongly opposed to the 
 change, but poor Gabriel poor, blind Gabriel received the 
 invitation with the first transport of joy he had known since 
 the accident in the studio. To Mrs. Hawleigh's mild argu- 
 ments against the advisability of such a step, he had queru- 
 lously replied : 
 
 " Why, mother, why not ? I'm tired of this pokey little 
 cottage ; every time I walk two yards, I run up against 
 something it's narrow, cramped, e'trique ; and besides, we 
 see so much of the Trevanions that we might just as well be 
 with them altogether. I don't want to go back to London 
 not until I can see again. I shall be able to see again some 
 day I know it and I want to look at Dartmoor before I 
 leave it. We must leave the cottage anyhow why not go 
 to Trevanion's place with the unpronounceable name ? they 
 
 237
 
 238 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 really want us to. It must be an awful tax upon them, 
 bringing them over all this way every time. Besides, I want 
 to go there I adore that old place it's lovely to wander 
 about in, even for me, and / cannot see it. Do accept, 
 mother do accept." 
 
 There was no refusing him, and so it was settled, though 
 Mrs. Hawleigh's heart sank within her, and Maye's soul was 
 filled with a vague terror of she knew not what. Only, dur- 
 ing the last days before they moved she devoted herself 
 more assiduously than ever to her poor, blind lover. Did 
 he appreciate her devotion ? who knows ? he had become 
 accustomed to being attended to, waited on, to have his 
 lightest wish anticipated. Accustomed ah! there it is. 
 Accustomed ! 
 
 And so they went to Trthwwsthpllgg, and found them- 
 selves at home at once. In the little boudoir Mrs. Haw- 
 leigh would sit with Mr. Trevanion, whilst Gabriel lay on the 
 lounge in the conservatory, and Maye sat talking to him ; or 
 more often she would sit with Maye, whilst Eric and Gabriel 
 went for strolls round the place, or for long drives into the 
 country, from which he would return radiant, and full of 
 Eric's descriptions of the scenery through which they had 
 passed. 
 
 " Really, do you know," he used to say, enthusiastically, 
 " Eric ought to have been a real artist instead of a toy one. 
 If his picture-painting equalled his word-painting he'd be 
 famous in no time. He has been describing the landscape 
 to me. There has been such a lovely sunset ; a gorgeous 
 blaze of crimson and gold, melting out of the blue heaven 
 into the purple and browns of the moor the most beautiful 
 thing I ever saw," he would continue, forgetting himself, his 
 affiction, everything, in his artist's enthusiasm ; " and the 
 very next picture I paint Ah ! what am I saying? what am 
 I saying ? " And a tear would gather in his sightless eyes 
 as he turned sadly away, to fling himself upon the lounge, or 
 to play a mournful bar or two upon his violin. 
 
 Constantly this would happen : happy in the companion-
 
 "SPLENDIDE MEND AX!" 239 
 
 ship of Eric he would lose all memory of his blindness, to be 
 suddenly reminded of it and stabbed to the heart by the 
 recollection ; then he would become fretful, and Maye 
 would soothe him into peace again. Sometimes on these 
 occasions Eric would look at her with something like star- 
 tled wonder in his eyes at the spectacle of this fair young 
 girl devoting her life to a blind man's care ; and if Maye 
 caught his look she would turn a shade paler, and her heart 
 would give a strong, convulsive throb as she turned to hide 
 her face from him. 
 
 What is love but contrast ? The adored one is different 
 from all the women one has ever met. What a difference 
 there was between Daphne Preault and this sweet, pure 
 maiden who stood before him in all the majestic solemnity 
 of her matchless self-sacrifice ! He looked at her, and his 
 look was that of the Catholic to the crucified Christ ; and 
 she returned him a look that seemed, in deprecating his 
 adoration, to beg for mercy at his hands. It was the 
 Prince-god Siddartha and the maiden Yasodhara once more : 
 
 " So their eyes mixed, and from the look sprang love / " 
 
 And the days passed by, and with them weeks, but more 
 slowly. Eric would absent himself for longer at a time, and 
 Mrs. Hawleigh's heart was filled with a vague terror. Mr. 
 Trevanion was as blissfully ignorant of the struggle that was 
 proceeding beneath his roof as the blind boy himself, and 
 quite innocently strove to throw his son and Maye together, 
 that he might appreciate the difference between this pure 
 English girl and the delirious Creole he had fled from in 
 London. Of Daphne, Eric had heard nothing. With some- 
 thing like a fear that he was insulting her he had repaid to 
 her the loans which he doubted whether she regarded as 
 such, and she had answered never a word. Only he re- 
 ceived a line or two from Schuyler Van Boomkamp, who still 
 lingered in London, and who told him he had done emi- 
 nently right in leaving Holland Street; that the intimacy of
 
 240 THE PRINCESS DAPHXE. 
 
 Daphne and Mahmour6 du Peyral showed little or no signs 
 of abatement ; and that he began to entertain grave fears of 
 how it might end. 
 
 And Maye ? Ah, sirs ! who shall pry into the secrets of 
 a woman's heart ? If ever she allowed herself to think, it 
 was only to add a new incentive to her imagination in devis- 
 ing new duties for herself that should draw her nearer, should 
 make her more necessary, to Gabriel ; and the love that was 
 growing in Eric's heart would probably never have found an 
 answer in that which lay deep and stifled in her own, had it 
 not been that one day Mrs. Hawleigh brought it before her 
 in all its truth. 
 
 Maye was sitting alone in the little boudoir, reading a 
 little volume of verse which Eric had brought from London. 
 She had just read a poem which had shaken her to the soul, 
 had terrified her, so close did its possible application seem 
 to her own case, when Mrs. Hawleigh entered the room, and, 
 seeing her sitting the open book in her lap looking straight 
 before her, apparently plunged in a reverie so profound that 
 her entrance did not disturb it, broke the silence by saying : 
 
 " Where are Gabriel and and Eric ? " 
 
 " Oh out in the woods and gardens, as usual, " replied 
 Maye ; " I heard them go laughing over the bridge more 
 than an hour ago." 
 
 " I don't know what we should do without Eric ; it is 
 really wonderful the way. he manages and takes care of Ga- 
 briel, reading to him and telling him stories by the hour, 
 and never minding when he grows irritable, poor boy ! 
 Curious, is it not, that he should forsake his shooting, and 
 his house-parties all over the county, to stay here and take 
 care of a blind man and amuse his companions ? Very cred- 
 itable, of course, but strange in such a fashionable and rich 
 young man." 
 
 " Very, " replied Maye, faintly, as she felt her aunt's eyes 
 riveted on her face. 
 
 " I hope for his sake "- continued Mrs. Hawleigh, com-
 
 "SPLENDIDE AIENDAX!" 24! 
 
 ing close to her, and laying her hand gently on her shoulder 
 " and ours, my dear child, that there is no other attraction 
 that keeps him here." 
 
 " Oh, auntie, of course not, " returned Maye, very hurried- 
 ly, and growing deathly pale as she continued, with a visible 
 effort ; " how could you suggest such a thing ? I respect 
 Eric Trevaniori for his devotion to Gabriel, and like all men, 
 it pleases it flatters him, to be respected by a woman. It 
 flatters his vanity. And being such a friend of Gabriel's, he 
 likes me almost as a brother would. But beyond that 
 nothing oh, nothing ! " 
 
 And the girl rose and left the room to run out into the 
 grounds, where she might be alone with the soft, black cattle, 
 and her heart-agony. 
 
 Left by herself, Mrs. Hawleigh stood for a moment at the 
 window, and saw Maye run out across the bridge. As she 
 settled to her work, she said to herself : 
 
 " Well, I hope Eric is not falling in love at last with Maye. 
 What a calamity it would be ! and yet poor child ! per- 
 haps well, well, Eric told me that, when Dr. Richardson's 
 final report came, he would accept some of his country-house 
 invitations, and go away from here, so that Gabriel might get 
 accustomed to perpetual darkness, or that he might grow 
 gradually well under Maye's gentle care. But it struck me 
 that he didn't talk of leaving them together with much 
 enthusiasm. Oh ! why doesn't Dr. Richardson write ? his 
 letter is days overdue, and the suspense is terrible." 
 
 The end was nearer than she supposed. It came on the 
 following afternoon. 
 
 Day after day Mrs. Hawleigh waited and watched for the 
 arrival of the post. Daily, from the post-office in the little 
 village, a decrepid courier, known as " the post boy, " started 
 on his weary round, bringing in the letters for Trthwwsthpllgg 
 soon after lunch ; and often, the minute the meal was fin- 
 ished, Maye or Eric would start for the village, and get the 
 letters before the post-boy had consigned them to his sack, 
 for delivery in their proper turn. 
 16
 
 242 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 To-day Maye had undertaken this duty at Mrs. Hawleigh's 
 earnest request, and her aunt anxiously awaited her return. 
 And as she waited she soliloquised : 
 
 " Dr. Richardson must write to-day, and then we shall 
 know. Poor Gabriel ! I hope I shall get as reconciled to his 
 affliction some day as he is now ; but at present there is 
 hardly a moment of the day that I can banish the thought 
 of it from my mind, and when I think of it a pang shoots 
 through my heart which is almost more than I can bear. 
 Poor little Maye, too ! poor child ! poor child ! How long 
 Gabriel was in love before he asked her to be his wife ! and 
 then that dreadful gas-explosion in the studio which blinded 
 him ! Dear, faithful little nurse ! she has shown us since 
 then what a good, true girl she is ; what should we have 
 done without her ? Still, it seems hard that she should be 
 condemned for the rest of her fair young life to taking care 
 of a poor, blind man, and looking after his helplessness. 
 Besides, what will they live upon if this blindness proves 
 really incurable ? Thank God ! I can just support him and 
 myself; but she has nothing, and he is no richer than she. 
 I see nothing but starvation in front of them." 
 
 At this point her soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance 
 of Maye. 
 
 " Well," exclaimed she, as the girl took off her hat, " have 
 you got the letters ? the post has not been here." 
 
 " No," replied Maye, " I just missed them. That poor 
 old man they call the post-boy had just started on his round 
 in the opposite direction, but I thought he would have been 
 here by now, for I walked slowly, and have been doing a 
 little gardening since I came in. Ah, there ! he has just 
 appeared at the top of the slope. I'll run and save him the 
 walk down and up again." 
 
 Five minutes later she returned, exclaiming, " Here you 
 are, auntie ! Two letters for you, and one big one for Eric. 
 Heigho ! there has never been anybody to write to me but 
 Gabriel, and now I write his letters for him. I can't very 
 well write love-letters to mvself. Poor Gabriel ! "
 
 " SPLENDIDE MEND AX ! " 243 
 
 " Ah," interrupted Mrs. Hawleigh, " here is Dr. Richard- 
 son's letter. This will put us out of our suspense about him. 
 Dear child, I can hardly hold it in my hands, I am so ner- 
 vous. Do you read it to me. Oh, heaven ! if I could only 
 know, without opening it the best or the worst ! " 
 
 She had given the envelope to Maye, and Maye, opening 
 it, had run her eyes over the first lines of the letter. Her 
 face, as she did so, became deathly white, and she said 
 softly : 
 
 "You must sit down, auntie darling ; I'm afraid the news 
 is not going to be good. Shall I begin now ? yes ? Very 
 well." 
 
 And she read as follows : 
 
 " MY DEAR MRS. HAWLEIGH : I have had a long and final 
 consultation with Dr. Critchett since I saw your son at Dart- 
 moor, and I regret to say that I fear I must destroy even the 
 small hope which I was able to give you then. There is no 
 longer any doubt that the nerves of both eyes are destroyed, 
 and, this being the case, it would be dealing unkindly with 
 you were I to hint at the possibility of an ultimate recovery. 
 You were good enough to make me the recipient of your 
 confidence, and to tell me of your son's approaching mar- 
 riage when this accident befell him." The reader's voice died 
 out for a moment, and then she resumed : " I feel that this 
 must be a terrible blow to his intended bride, for he will 
 never be able to see her again, and I can fully realize what 
 it will be to you to break this news to her. Please accept 
 my sincere sympathy with this sad affliction which has fallen 
 upon you, and believe me to be, with kind regards, 
 Always very faithfully yours, 
 
 E. CLIFFORD RICHARDSON. 
 
 As she finished reading, she rose, and, moving to the 
 window leading into the conservatory, she leant against it, 
 struggling to suppress her emotion. Mrs. Hawleigh, who 
 had burst into tears, came to her, and, winding her arms
 
 244 THE PXIA'CESS DAPHNE. 
 
 about her, kissed her silently. Then, taking the letter from 
 her, she left the room. 
 
 Maye returned to the seat she had occupied before, and 
 sat, dry-eyed tearless gazing into the future. 
 
 Blind ! hope was extinguished Gabriel was incurably 
 blind ! 
 
 And whilst she sat, the twilight deepening over her soul, 
 she heard a burst of laughter in the conservatory, and Eric 
 and Gabriel stood on the threshold. The former, seeing 
 the girl sitting there, a wild, white look in her eyes, started 
 forward a step, forgetful of the blind man's hand upon his 
 arm. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter, old man ? " exclaimed Gabriel ; 
 " I'll trouble you not to stumble when your two eyes have to 
 direct four legs. Is anybody here ? " 
 
 Maye tried to speak, but her parched tongue refused to 
 articulate immediately. Seeing the struggle, Eric answered : 
 
 " Yes yes Miss Trevethick is here." 
 
 " Then why don't you answer, Maye ? " said Gabriel, irri- 
 tably. " I wish you wouldn't play with me as if I were Caleb 
 Deecie in ' The Two Roses.' Ah ! I saw ' The Two Roses.' 
 Well," he continued, recovering himself, "you've missed 
 such a treat ; you should have come out with us. Eric has 
 been reading me some lovely poems out of a new little book 
 called 'Tares.' They are beautiful he must read some to 
 you. And we have had another exquisite sunset. You ought 
 to have seen it." And he took up his violin, which lay as 
 usual on the piano, and began playing to himself, " Told in 
 the Twilight," the refrain of the song, " Close to the Thresh- 
 old." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said Eric, in an undertone to Maye ; " it's 
 hard to believe sometimes that he doesn't really see the 
 things he describes to one. Do you know, Miss Trevethick, 
 sometimes he describes you to me so perfectly that I actually 
 see you before me he delights in doing it. Really, if you 
 heard him you would be both interested and flattered, be- 
 lieve me."
 
 "SPLENDIDE MEND AX!" 245 
 
 "And believe me, Mr. Trevanion," returned Maye, with a 
 wild effort at merriment, as she made him a courtesy, " I am. 
 But seriously, how can we ever thank you for your kindness 
 to him and to us ? It is only with you that he forgets that 
 he is blind. What would I not give to be able to be to him 
 what you are ! " 
 
 What Eric would have answered I know not; what he 
 thought was : " And what would I not give to be to her 
 what he is ! I wish that I were blind when I see them 
 together." It was her own thought repeated. 
 
 They were interrupted by Gabriel suddenly laying down 
 his violin and saying : 
 
 " Now, then, what are you two conspiring about ? Don't 
 you know that it's very rude to whisper before third parties ? 
 I suppose you imagine that I don't count ah, no, I don't 
 mean that," added he, as Maye went quickly to his side and 
 touched him ; " I was only chaffing. Come ! what have you 
 been doing since lunch ? and where's the mother ? " 
 
 "Oh," replied Maye, turning cold and confused at the 
 thought of the imminent explanation, " I walked down to 
 the village because auntie wanted to geOthe letters quickly, 
 but the post had started, so I came home and tied up those 
 creepers which hang down and annoy you when you come in 
 at the conservatory door and then the post came in here's 
 a letter for you, Mr. Trevanion and then the mother left 
 me alone and went to her room I think. How far did you 
 walk ? " concluded she, desperately changing the subject. 
 
 "Tell me," said Gabriel, not heeding her question, "was 
 mother's letter from Richardson ? " 
 
 " I I think it was." 
 
 " Did mother tell you what was in the letter ? " pursued 
 the blind man, with a strong effort to appear calm. " Rich- 
 ardson was to write and say how soon I shall be able to see 
 again." 
 
 " No," replied Maye, with forced prevarication, " she did 
 not tell me what was in the letter."
 
 246 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " I must go to her at once take me to her, Maye ; " and 
 the two disappeared. 
 
 Left alone, Eric drew his letter from his pocket. It was 
 directed in Schuyler Van Boomkamp's characteristic fist, 
 and was a bulky letter enclosed in a foolscap envelope. 
 It was with a vague, sickening feeling of apprehension that 
 he tore it open and brought to light a closely written manu- 
 script, headed " The Narrative of the Coloured Woman Cly- 
 temnestra" and a letter from Schuyler Van Boomkamp. 
 The latter was short, and to the point. It read as follows : 
 
 " MY DEAR TREVANION : Miss Daphne Preault is dead. 
 The circumstances attending her death constitute, I fear, 
 a horrible tragedy, of which the details are contained in the 
 narrative I have compiled for you, from the account given 
 by the coloured woman who attended upon Miss Preault and 
 witnessed her death. To that narrative I have nothing to 
 add, save that I was able to certify that death ensued from 
 naturally-produced asphyxia, in which certificate a singularly 
 ignorant practitioner, who announced himself to me as Miss 
 Preault's regular medical attendant, concurred, knowing noth- 
 ing of the case. I am making arrangements for the return 
 of Clytemnestra to New Orleans ; she is amply provided for 
 under the will of Miss Preault, the bulk of whose property 
 is bequeathed to you. Finally, as regards Madame du 
 Peyral, if it became necessary at any future time, I could 
 certify that she was mentally deranged, and not responsible 
 for her actions ; in any case, under the circumstances, the 
 death of Miss Preault certainly unpremeditated might 
 have been accidental. Madame du Peyral left England the 
 same night as the tragedy occurred. I forbore to enquire 
 whither she was bound possibly to her original destination 
 in Greece. I do not think it will be necessary for us to 
 ascertain ; she will certainly not return. I leave, myself, for 
 Paris this evening. Should you wish to communicate with 
 me, a letter addressed, care of His Excellency, the American 
 Minister, will reach me safely. 
 
 A word in conclusion, in case we should never meet
 
 "SPLENDIDE MEND AX!" 247 
 
 again. You and I have been the witnesses of, and to a 
 certain extent actors in, one of the most startling, nay 
 terrific, psychological dramas that it has ever been my fate 
 to encounter in all my experience in mental science. I shall 
 prepare a report thereon, which I shall send you for 
 signature ; any details that you can add will be valuable. 
 I think we had better keep our own counsel in the matter, 
 closely and completely, until the story of Daphne Preault 
 and Paul du Peyral shall have become a chapter of forgotten 
 history. I wish you health and prosperity, and shall remain 
 always, my dear Trevanion, 
 
 Very faithfully yours, 
 
 SCHUYLER VAN BOOMKAMP. 
 
 White to the lips, Eric Trevanion looked from the letter 
 he held in his hand to the manuscript, which had fallen to 
 the floor. He picked it up and hastily glanced through the 
 sheets until he reached the last page. Then his eyes di- 
 lated with horror, his pallor increased, and he felt as 
 though he would have fainted, had he not fled forth 
 into the air. There his senses seemed to return to him. 
 Composing himself with a violent effort, he returned into 
 the house, and, going to his own room, he locked away 
 carefully Schuyler Van Boomkamp's letter and manuscript 
 in his dispatch-box. 
 
 And then a great sense of misery and loneliness came 
 over him, and flinging himself onto a sofa, he cried aloud 
 in the agony of his soul : " Oh, God ! and is this the end ? 
 Is my life utterly wasted? utterly spoilt ? Blind blind fool 
 that I have been ! Had I but known where my happiness 
 lay had I not been stupefied by my ghastly folly you 
 might have loved me Maye, my darling, my pure, beautiful 
 love ! And now what is left for me ? Ashes ashes ! I am 
 not fit to enter your presence and yet I have fancied 
 but no, she is pledged to Gabriel God forbid that I should 
 break his heart should wreck his life more completely than 
 it is wrecked already ! I will go to her perhaps the sight of
 
 248 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 her sweet, true face will chase this nightmare from my brain 
 may save me, after all, in spite of myself/' And then the 
 lines recurred to him this time with a new hope in every 
 word : 
 
 " I hold it truth, with him who sings 
 To one clear harp in divers tones, 
 That men may rise on stepping-stones 
 Of their dead selves to higher things ! " 
 
 And so Eric Trevanion sought once more the little boudoir, 
 where he found Maye alone in the twilight, standing at the 
 window looking out into the deepening shadows across the 
 moat. 
 
 As he entered the room she turned quickly. The evening 
 light slanted across his drawn, white face, and she ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Mr. Trevanion Eric you have had bad news ! " 
 
 " Bad news ! bad news ? I wonder whether it be bad. 
 Terrible news yes ! but bad ! I wonder ? " 
 
 "Oh, what is it?" 
 
 " Daphne Pre'ault is dead." 
 
 " Dead ! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How dreadful ! how did she die ? tell me about it." 
 
 " She died in one of her curious fainting-fits. She had 
 had many of them in the past year, and since her serious 
 illness a short while ago she has never been her old self." 
 
 " I am so sorry Eric." 
 
 " Nay, do not be sorry for her, or for me, Miss Treve- 
 thick. Perhaps it is better thus." 
 
 " But you loved her so." 
 
 " Loved her ? did I love her ? no ; I think God help 
 me ! that I was bewitched, possessed mad ! " 
 
 " But surely " 
 
 " Do not let us speak of it I beg of you. It is all too 
 sudden, too ghastly. Let us speak of something else." 
 
 There was a moment of deathly stillness, and then Maye, 
 womanlike, recovering herself the first, said :
 
 " SPLENDIDE MEND AX ! " 249 
 
 " What are these poems that Gabriel speaks about, that 
 you have been reading to him ? " 
 
 " A little volume by a young author," answered he, draw- 
 ing it from his pocket as he spoke. " They are light, of 
 course ; but some of them are very pretty. It has been lying 
 about ; have you not read them ? " 
 
 " No I took it up yesterday, but I was interrupted. Will 
 you not read me one, as Gabriel suggested ? " 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it. No, do not ring : there is light 
 enough here at the window. What sort of poem shall I 
 read you ? " 
 
 " Had you not better go on where you left off ? " 
 
 " Very well. I was just going to read this one, when it 
 struck me it was getting chilly for Gabriel, and we got up to 
 come home. It is called " Nachtstuck" and runs thus : 
 
 " 1 will lie still, here in the shadow, and turn my face to the wall ; 
 Mine eyes shall behold no other since they may not mirror you, * 
 Since I may not hear your voice mine ears shall be sealed too, 
 And my lips are mute to all ! 
 
 '' But you oh, my fair, sweet love, you must walk far afield, in the light, 
 Not quite forgetting my soul that aches in the darkness here, 
 Though Time's soft, dead hand puts me from you, each day less dear 
 Grow the tender memories of night. 
 
 " And that shall be well ! I am only a wraith from the fast, 
 No more may my glad arms cradle your drooped gold head, 
 To you and because to you, to all am I henceforth dead. 
 [And you knew not that kiss was our last /] 
 
 " And that is well too ! to the last was otir summer sweet, 
 To the very end no pale cloud obscured our exquisite days, 
 Our sun, for the last time, set in a warm, wild blaze, 
 Making earth and heaven meet ! 
 
 " False ? Ah, no! hardly that dear heart, you are not to blame ; 
 
 [ Who carps at the sun, or the transient rain, or the fleeting evening 
 
 dew ? ] 
 
 And I cavil not at your fair young soul that would fain, but could not 
 be true, 
 
 And I love you, aye, the same.
 
 250 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 " That you do not ask it, I know, and I would not, alas ! but must 
 
 Lie here chained and tortured by memory forever ; but you, dear, are 
 
 free : 
 
 And the welcomest gift that this wide, blank universe holds for me 
 Is a little handful of dust! " 
 
 As he read, his voice grew lower and more tender. 
 Every word ate into her soul. It seemed as if Gabriel him- 
 self was speaking, and it was more than she could bear. The 
 spell of the words lay over Eric too, and he realized every 
 word and its meaning. Had it not been for this they would 
 have heard the slight noise that Gabriel had made as he 
 raised himself on one elbow, to listen as he lay upon the 
 couch in the conservatory. He had come in from the 
 garden just as Eric entered the room they had not heard 
 him and now, with a blind man's acuteness of ear, not a 
 word that they had said had escaped him. 
 
 Even now he might have made his presence known to 
 them, but that, as Eric's voice ceased, Maye buried her 
 head in her hands, and moaning, " Oh ! Gabriel ! " burst 
 into an agony of tears. Gabriel waited and listened 
 hardly daring to breathe in the gloom of the conservatory. 
 
 It was Eric who spoke first within the room : 
 
 " Ah, Miss Trevethick," he exclaimed, " I have pained 
 you, Maye ! This poem has touched you then it speaks 
 to you as it speaks to me. Poor Gabriel ! of us three I do 
 not know whom I should pity most. You do not answer. 
 Alas ! that I should speak so, when every prompting of 
 honour urges me to keep silent. I have no right to speak, 
 as my heart bids me, to the affianced wife of my best friend 
 least of all when he is afflicted, helpless, as poor Gabriel 
 is, but I am going away now, and I cannot go without a 
 word." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Trevanion I beg of you " 
 
 "Ah! don't stop me now I am leaving you, perhaps 
 forever. Every day that I have been here I have been 
 drawing nearer and nearer to the truth, that I love you aye ! 
 love you more than words can say than eyes can speak ;
 
 " SPLENDIDE MEND AX! " 251 
 
 and that when I leave you as leave you I must poor 
 Gabriel's blindness will have fallen on my soul. God help 
 me, for I am utterly helpless myself." 
 
 " My duty my duty " began the girl, but he interrupted 
 her: 
 
 " Yes, your duty and mine ; but when I think of your fair 
 young life tied to his in one ceaseless continuance of care 
 for his infirmity, even as you have tended him hitherto ; 
 when I think that his eyes can never see you, that you must 
 be chained for all your life to the side of a man whose only 
 knowledge of you is memory the remembrance of your 
 beauty, which cannot give brilliancy, for one moment, to the 
 darkness before his eyes, my heart is ready to burst. Ah ! " 
 he continued, desperately, losing himself in the torrent of 
 his words, " let me go to him and implore his forgiveness 
 for myself, for us. Why should we wreck three lives as 
 wrecked they must be without doing any good by the 
 sacrifice ? I cannot believe that I have been mistaken 
 that you care nothing for me oh ! come to me, and be the 
 light of my life." 
 
 He had fallen on his knees by her side, burying his head 
 in his hands in the agony of his despair and she laid her 
 hand gently on his shoulder, as she answered him in a cold, 
 miserable voice : 
 
 " Hush, Eric ! hush ! I can never be the light of your 
 life, if, indeed, that might be, for I have promised to be the 
 light of his. You have spoken truly he will never see me 
 you any of us, again ; the letter from Dr. Richardson has 
 destroyed our last hope Gabriel is incurably blind, and 
 this, if nothing else, makes my path clear before me." 
 
 He raised his eyes to hers, and stayed there, on his 
 knees, gazing into her soul, as she pronounced the death- 
 sentence of their love. 
 
 "We must not misunderstand one another, dear friend," 
 continued she, "but I would gladly have spared both my- 
 self and you this full knowledge of the truth. I am, as you
 
 252 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 know, without relations, without friends, save for Mrs. 
 Hawleigh and Gabriel ; without means of subsistence save 
 what I can gain by my own work. Auntie rescued me five 
 years ago from absolute penury, and whilst I lived with her, 
 Gabriel loved me in silence during all that wear}' time. 
 It was only when he became famous and was becoming 
 rich that he asked me to link my life with his ; and I con- 
 sented. What else could I do ? besides I loved him very 
 dearly though not as I could love. Hush ! do not speak ! 
 His accident, as you know, has destroyed all his prospects ; 
 would you have me desert him now ? No, no ! We must go 
 away from here for I own to you, Eric, that you have 
 stirred a deeper feeling within my heart than I knew existed 
 there. Ah ! why should I pretend ignorance of my own 
 weakness ? it is love ! But you are his friend and mine 
 are you not ? Help me, then, by your example, to do my 
 duty to our poor, blind Gabriel." 
 
 She ceased speaking, and Eric, rising to his feet, took 
 her hand and kissed it as he would have done homage to a 
 saint. Then he said, controlling his voice with a violent 
 effort : 
 
 "Then it is all over. Thank you for this grand lesson 
 you have taught me, and may you be as happy in your new 
 life as you deserve. Forgive me for what is past, dear, and 
 forget, if you can, that I ever asked you to be untrue to 
 your promise to Gabriel. I leave here to-morrow. Think 
 of me kindly, if you can, sometimes. For myself I cannot 
 regret this trial, for it will make my life better, purer, to 
 have loved you as I have come to do. See I will tear 
 this poem from this little book ; and he must never know ! 
 Perhaps we shall never meet again. In that case good- 
 bye God in heaven bless you, Maye Trevethick." 
 
 He kissed her hand once more, and the next moment he 
 was gone. The silence that he left behind him was broken 
 by a tiny noise in the conservatory. Maye's heart gave a 
 violent bound, and for an instant she seemed to stifle ; then
 
 " SPL END IDE MEND A X!" 253 
 
 she went into the conservatory it was empty and flinging 
 herself upon Gabriel's lounge, she sobbed as if her heart 
 would break. 
 
 The dinner at Trthwwsthpllgg that night was a silent 
 meal save that Gabriel made a superhuman effort to 
 appear gay as usual. He and Eric kept up a cross-fire of 
 conversation, in which Maye alone detected the false note. 
 When it was ended, and the Trevanions, father and son, and 
 Gabriel had joined Mrs. Hawleigh and Maye in the little 
 boudoir, Gabriel said : 
 
 " Are we all here ? yes ? That is good I have some- 
 thing very serious to say to you all. Yes, mother," he said 
 to Mrs. Hawleigh, who came and laid her hand on his arm, 
 " it must be said sooner or later, as I told you. Sit down 
 and keep silence, all of you, please, till I have done. 
 Maye ! mother has been reading to me Dr. Richardson's 
 letter,, and it has decided me to say what I have been on 
 the verge of saying to you for many weeks for many 
 weeks. You now know that I can never recover my sight, 
 that I can never again see the landscapes in which I have 
 revelled, the flowers and animals which I have loved ; can 
 never again see you, save as the beautiful model whose 
 features I fixed upon my canvas and my brain last, before 
 my light became a great darkness. I am poor very poor 
 and blind. That, I know, makes no difference to you 
 but, alas ! this physical infirmity has altered my whole being 
 in a moment, as it were in a moment and I should be 
 doing you a grievous wrong were I to conceal my altered 
 feelings from you and marry you notwithstanding. Hush! 
 do not speak I beg of you. Only forgive me. I cannot 
 marry you to make your fair young life one of slavery, even 
 if I would do so; and you must not think me fickle or 
 untrue ; it is my infirmity my infirmity, that has altered 
 my whole life." 
 
 Maye flung herself on her knees by his side, and put her 
 arms about him :
 
 254 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 "I cannot leave you like this, Gabriel I cannot leave 
 you ! " she said. 
 
 " I know I know, dear," he replied ; " but it must be so. 
 Eric your voice, when you have spoken to me of Maye, 
 has told me far more than your words have said we blind 
 men have keen intuitions and infallible instincts, you know ; 
 will you guide for me this child-friend of mine through her 
 pure, sweet life ? and the knowledge of your happiness will 
 be a light to my life which has become so dark." 
 
 Eric Trevanion rose in his turn : 
 
 " Gabriel dear old man," he said, " you must not make 
 this sacrifice we cannot bear it." 
 
 " Yes, old friend," he replied, " it must be it is better 
 so. Mother, dear we shall not be separated, after all, you 
 and I. We will go back to the old studio, to our old life 
 and my music, and Eric and Maye will come sometimes to 
 tell me of the world they see around them." 
 
 Splendide mendax !
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Many years have passed since the day that the story told 
 in the foregoing pages was closed with Gabriel Hawleigh's 
 magnificent lie. The Hawleighs, mother and son, are both 
 dead. Gabriel Hawleigh died in Naples or more accu- 
 rately speaking, at Sorrento, whither he had fled in search 
 of quiet, and recovery from a malarial fever caught in Rome 
 but not before his fame as a musician had rung from one 
 end of Europe to the other, as would have rung his fame as 
 a painter, had not his career been cut short by his accident. 
 There lingers probably in the memory of many of my 
 readers the fame of a violinist who stirred the heart-strings 
 of his audiences as no one has stirred them since Paganini 
 and Sainton stayed their magic fingers under the grasp of 
 death. He was a miracle for he was blind. And under 
 the nom d'artiste which he adopted and inscribed indelibly 
 upon the roll-call of glory, only a few people in England 
 recognized Gabriel Hawleigh the painter. 
 
 His mother was with him to the last, but she did not long 
 survive her son. She died in the old studio-house in Hol- 
 land Street shall I say of a broken heart ? Now-a-days I 
 fear to say it, for, now-a-days, hearts do not break. 
 
 Dick Lindsay married Eva Easton, but Sylvia never mar- 
 ried anybody : she lives on the Schiavoni in Venice, and 
 paints pictures that are eagerly sought for in the index of 
 the Academy catalogue. Bernard Rawlinson is a great 
 actor now, and never paints at all ; Gerome Markham still 
 individualizes the pages of a leading comic paper, and 
 dresses five times a day he does not look an hour older 
 than he did the day on which I first saw him ; and Mr. 
 Charles Sturton-Baker has disappeared. There was a little 
 difficulty about the prospectus of a joint-stock company, 
 
 255
 
 256 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 which brought about his enforced seclusion for a few years 
 at the expense of Her Majesty's government. When he 
 had served his term he sought fresh fields for his peculiar 
 industry in the United States, exchanging them subse- 
 quently, owing to circumstances over which unfortunately 
 he had control, for the pleasant security of Canada. 
 
 He did not marry Parthenia Van Baulk'em. 
 
 That young lady came over to England to inspect Mr. 
 Charles Sturton-Baker's position " on the ground " so to 
 speak, and finding that the swain had given to an airy noth- 
 ing, a local habitation and a name, returned to Fifth Avenue 
 the betrothed of Mr. Murray Hill. They were married in 
 the spring following and people say that he beats her. 
 
 It was only last summer that I went down to Cornwall, 
 to rest at Trthwwsthpllgg Manor, at the conclusion of a more 
 than ordinarily hard spell of work, and gave that terrible 
 polymonosyllable to my publishers as my address for a 
 couple of months. The Autocrat of Trthwwsthpllgg is a 
 grand old gentleman, autocrat now only in name, for the 
 reins of government have fallen to Eric, who is the typical 
 young country squire, very proud of his place and his 
 horses, and on his knees to his wife, who has not aged an 
 hour I swear! since I first met her in Holland Street. 
 And in the early morning I used to be awakened by a 
 chorus of shrill shouts from the lawn beneath my windows, 
 proceeding from the throats of Eric's children, to wit, his 
 daughter Dorothy, a young woman of decided and advanced 
 opinions, and her twin brothers, Eric and Gabriel, whom she 
 rules with a rod of iron. They are her juniors by a couple 
 of years, and it is an understood thing that Dorothy is to 
 make haste and catch me up, and then we are to be married ! 
 
 One evening I was sitting alone with Eric in his armoury, 
 dignified by the name of " study," when our conversation 
 turned upon the old colony in Holland Street, on the 
 Hawleighs, and on " the Princess Daphne." The old 
 wound had long healed over, so I knew that I could ap- 
 proach the subject with impunity.
 
 EPILOGUE. 257 
 
 " By-the-bye," I said, " what a dreadfully sudden thing 
 Daphne Pre'ault's death was ! did you ever hear any of the 
 details ? " 
 
 "Yes all of them." 
 
 " How did she die ? " 
 
 "My dear fellow," said Eric, very gravely, " the death of 
 Daphne Preault was one of the most horrible tragedies that 
 the world has ever witnessed: Fortunately for everybody 
 concerned she had been attended by Schuyler Van Boom- 
 kamp, the American psychologist, and he arranged matters." 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ? " I exclaimed ; " I never 
 thought there was any mystery. I always understood that 
 Miss Preault was subject to fits of some kind, and that in 
 one of them she had died." 
 
 " If you like," said Eric Trevanion, not answering my re- 
 mark, " I will place in your hands a complete account of 
 her death. It reached me and I read it the day that I pro- 
 posed to Maye, my wife. From that day to this it has lain 
 undisturbed." 
 
 So saying, he turned to a dispatch-box that lay on the 
 table, and, unlocking it, he took thence a few sheets of 
 paper, folded up, and getting yellow with age. These he 
 placed into my hands. I unfolded them and read as follows : 
 
 THE NARRATIVE OF THE COLOURED WOMAN CLYTEMNESTRA : 
 GATHERED FROM HER LIPS BY SCHUYLER VAN BOOM- 
 KAMP, M.D., LEYDEN, PARIS, AND N. Y. 
 
 I was born in the service of the late Victor Preault of 
 New Orleans, on the Belles Fontaines plantation, Louisiana, 
 U. S. A. After his death I came to England with Miss 
 Daphne Preault, and have been with her all the time she has 
 been in this country. Madame du Peyral began coming to 
 the house early in this summer, and she and Miss Pre'ault 
 seemed very much attached to one another. Whenever Mr. 
 Trevanion was not here, Madame du Peyral used to come 
 and remain with Miss Pre'ault. One day Madame du Peyral 
 17
 
 258 THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 brought her things and came to stay in the house. The 
 next day Mr. Trevanion left London. I have not seen him 
 since. 
 
 Madame du Peyral was here about three weeks ; she 
 occupied the room adjoining Miss Preault's on the first floor, 
 and connected with it by a door. They used generally to 
 sit up talking late into the night in one room or the other, 
 and in the morning, at nine o'clock, I used to carry up the 
 breakfast. Often Madame du Peyral would be in Miss Pre- 
 ault's room, and then I used to carry the chocolate in there 
 for both. A few days after Mr. Trevanion had left, a letter 
 came from him, and I took it up to Miss Daphne on her 
 tray. Madame du Peyral was there, sitting on the edge of 
 the bed talking, and the moment she saw the letter she tried 
 to snatch it. Miss Daphne was too quick for her, and she 
 did not get it. I often heard them speak of it afterwards, 
 Madame du Peyral always wanting to see it, and Miss 
 Daphne never showing it to her. 
 
 The last morning before Madame du Peyral left the house 
 I took up the chocolate as usual, and as I went into the 
 room I thought I heard their voices raised as if in anger, 
 and when I got in, Miss Daphne was lying in bed looking 
 very pale, and I was afraid she was going to have one of 
 the fainting-fits she used to have. Madame du Peyral was 
 sitting on the bed by her side, looking at her her face was 
 red, and she had a dangerous look in her eyes that 
 frightened me. The bed-clothes were disarranged, and the 
 two looked as if they had been struggling. Neither spoke 
 whilst I was in the room, and instead of going out again by 
 the door onto the landing, I went into Madame du Peyral's 
 room, intending to arrange it a little, and to be within call. 
 In a moment, however, I heard footsteps, and Madame du 
 Peyral, coming in by the connecting door, said : 
 
 " You need not arrange my room yet wait till I am 
 dressed." 
 
 I went out, but came back as soon as I heard them talk- 
 ing together again, and listened at the door, which had been
 
 EPILOGUE. 359 
 
 left ajar between the two rooms. Madame du Peyral was 
 saying : 
 
 " Why won't you let me see it ? I am sure there can be 
 nothing to conceal. I know Mr. Trevanion dislikes me, 
 and that if he mentioned me at all, it was unpleasantly." 
 
 " But he didn't mention you at all, Mahmoure what a 
 child you are ! " said Miss Daphne. 
 
 " Not such a child," she said, " as to be deceived in that 
 ridiculous way. I know what was in the letter he wants to 
 make peace with you, and he wants you to give me up. 
 Well, it is very simple for you to choose. You are tired of 
 me." 
 
 "Don't be so silly," was the answer; " there isn't a word 
 of truth in what you say ! " 
 
 Then I peeped through the door-crack, and saw Miss 
 Preault take Madame in her arms. The latter struggled 
 away, exclaiming : 
 
 " No you are tired of me." 
 
 " I am not." 
 
 " Then give me the letter." 
 
 "I can't." 
 
 And then Madame du Peyral began to cry. 
 
 " Come, Mahmoure," said Miss Daphne, " you excite 
 yourself too much. You are overtaxing your strength. We 
 carry our gossip too late into the night. Even /am not so 
 strong as I was. Every night I determine to send you to 
 bed, and not let you sit here and chatter; but then we for- 
 get all about the time. I have been feeling unlike myself 
 for days, and this morning I have a dreadful headache. 
 Come, stroke my temples for me, dear." 
 
 Madame du Peyral's face was turned in my direction, 
 and as she leaned over Miss Daphne, the same horrible, 
 frightening look came into it. I could see that Miss Pre- 
 ault's eyes were shut. Then the other got up and, creeping 
 across the room, pulled down the blind, and came back to 
 the bed, where she lay down and began passing her fingers 
 across Miss Prdault's forehead and through her hair.
 
 2<5o THE PRINCESS DAPHNE. 
 
 Miss Daphne did not move, and gradually Madame du 
 Peyral drew herself into a crouching, sitting position, watch- 
 ing, watching, watching, as she played with the other 
 woman's hair. Suddenly Miss Daphne gave a gasp and 
 struggled a little. Madame, seeing her move, flung herself 
 suddenly upon her, and gripped her round the throat I did 
 not dare to stir I was frozen with terror. 
 
 Then she began to mutter rapidly and incoherently in a 
 harsh, forced voice. 
 
 " No, no ! " she said, "you shall not die I will keep your 
 life in you ; it shall not escape ; " and she still held Miss 
 Daphne's throat. 
 
 The latter moved a little, then a little more. Then her 
 movements grew weaker again, and at last she lay quite still. 
 Then Madame du Peyral stooped lower and began kissing 
 her. I went into the room. As I entered, she looked up 
 like a wild animal just going to spring, and cried, "Go 
 away ! how dare you come in here ? " 
 
 I was terrified, and put on my things and ran for the 
 American doctor who has been here sometimes. When he 
 came he told me Miss Daphne was dead. 
 
 I say that Madame du Peyral killed her. 
 
 Her 
 
 CLYTEM X NESTRA. 
 
 Mark 
 
 At this point the manuscript was signed with the mark of 
 Clytemnestra, witnessed by Schuyler Van Boomkamp. A 
 few words were added by the doctor to the effect that Miss 
 Daphne Preault had died of a sudden cerebral congestion 
 produced by over-excitement, and the narrative closed with 
 his signature and the date. 
 
 THE END.
 
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 Adventures Among The Indians. By W. H. Kingston. 
 Beauchampe. By W. Gilmore Simms. 
 Border Beagles. By W. Gilmore Simms. 
 Cast Up By The Sea. By Sir Samuel Baker. 
 Charlemont. By W. Gilmore Simms. 
 Confession. By W. Gilmore Simms. 
 Deep Down. By R. M. Ballantyne. 
 Deerslayer (The) By Fenimore Cooper. 
 Don Quixote. By Miguel Cervantes. 
 Erling, The Bold. ByR. M. Ballantyne. 
 Eutaw. By W. Gilmore Simms. 
 Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. Ballantyne. 
 Forayers (The). By W. Gilmore Simms. 
 Giant Raft (The). By Jules Verne. 
 Guy Rivera. By W. Gilmore Simms. 
 Hunting In The Great West. By G. O. Shields. 
 Katharine Walton . By W. Gilmore Simms. 
 Last of The Mohicans (The). By Fenimore Cooper. 
 Mellichampe. By W. Gilmore Simms. 
 Mysterious Island, (The.) By Jules Verne. 
 Partisan (The) . By W. Gilmore Simms . 
 Pathfinder (The.) By Fenimore Cooper. 
 
 Perilous Adventures, By Land and Sea. By John Frost, LL.D 
 Rifle and Hound In Ceylon. By Sir Samuel Baker. 
 Richard Hurdis. ByW. Gilmore Simms. 
 Robinson Crusoe. By Daniel Defoe. 
 Scout (The). By W. Gilmore Simms. 
 Secret Dispatch (The) . By James Grant. 
 Southward Ho! By W. Gilmore Simms. 
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 Swiss Family Robinson. By Wyss & Montolieu. 
 Xhrilling Scenes Among The Indians. ByT. M. Newson. 
 Four of The World In Eighty Days . By Jules Verne . 
 Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea. By Jules Verne. 
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 11
 
 DETECTIVE STORIES. 
 
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 Gilded Clique (The). By Emile Gaboriau. 
 In Peril Of His Life. By Emile Gaboriau. 
 Lerouge Case (The). By Emile Gaboriau. 
 Monsier Lecoq. By Emile Gaboriau. 
 Mystery of Orcival . By Emile Gaboriau . 
 Other People's Money. By Emile Gaboriau. 
 
 ESSAYS AND BELLES LETTRES. 
 
 Alhambra. By Washington Irving. 
 
 Astoria. By Washington Irving. 
 
 Crown of Wild Olive and Queen of The Air. By John Ruskin. 
 
 Ethics of The Dust and A Joy Forever . By John Ruskin . 
 
 Heroes and Hero Worship. By Thomas Carlyle. 
 
 Sartor Resartus . By Thomas Carlyle . 
 
 Sesame and Lilies and Unto This Last. By John Ruskin. 
 
 Sketch Book. By Washington Irving. 
 
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 Beauty's Daughters. By " The Duchess." 
 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton. 
 Beyond Pardon. By Bertha M. Clay. 
 Broken Wedding Ring (A). By Bertha M. Clay. 
 Called Back and Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 
 Cardinal Sin (A) . By Hugh Conway . 
 Children of The Abbey . By Maria Roche . 
 Daughter of Heth (A). By Wm. Black. 
 Doris. By " The Duchess." 
 Dora Thome. By Bertha M. Clay. 
 Dick's Sweetheart. By "The Duchess." 
 Dunallan. By Grace Kennedy. 
 Earl's Atonement (The). By Bertha M. Clay. 
 
 13
 
 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 
 
 Eugene Aram . By Bulwer Lytton . 
 
 Endyinion. By Benjamin Disraeli. 
 
 Faith and Unfaith. By " The Duchess." 
 
 Felix Holt . By Geo . Eliot . 
 
 ForLilias. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 Green Pastures and Picadilly. By Wm. Black. 
 
 Great Expectations. By Chas. Dickens. 
 
 Heart and Science. By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 Henry Esmond . By Wm . M. Thackeray . 
 
 Her Desperate Victory. By Mrs. M. L. Rayne. 
 
 Her Mother's Sin. By Bertha M. Clay. 
 
 lone Stewart. By Miss E. Linn Linton. 
 
 Ishmaelite (An). By Miss M. E. Braddon. 
 
 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte. 
 
 John Halifax, Gentleman. By Miss Mulock. 
 
 Kenelm Chillingly. By Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 King Arthur. By Miss Mulock. 
 
 King Solomon's Mines. By H. Rider Haggard. 
 
 Ladies Lindores. By Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 Lady Audley's Secret. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 
 
 Lady Branksmere . By ' ' The Duchess . " 
 
 Love Works Wonders. By Bertha M. Clay. 
 
 Macleod of Dare. By Wm. Black. 
 
 Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black. 
 
 Maid of Athens. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 Margaret and Her Bridesmaids. By Julia Stretton. 
 
 Mental Struggle, (A) . By " The Duchess . " 
 
 Mill On The Floss . By Geo . Eliot . 
 
 Molly Bawn. By "The Duchess." 
 
 Mrs . Geoffrey . By " The Duchess . " 
 
 New Magdalen (The). By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 Old Myddelton's Money. By Mary Cecil Hay. 
 
 Oliver Twist . By Charles Dickens . 
 
 Our Mutual Friend . By Charles Dickens. 
 
 Parisians (The). By Bulwer Lytton . 
 
 Paul and Virginia, Rasselas and Vicar of Wakefield. By St 
 
 Pierre, Johnson & Goldsmith. 
 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 
 Phyllis. By "The Duchess." 
 
 Portia ; or, By Passions Rocked . By " The Duchess . " 
 Princess of Thule (A). By Wm. Black. 
 Repented at Leisure . By Bertha M. Clay. 
 Romola . By Geo . Eliot . 
 Rossmoyne. By " The Duchess." 
 Shandon Bells. By Wm. Black. 
 She . By H . Rider Haggard . 
 Strange Story (A). By Bnlwer Lytton . 
 Strange Adventures of a Phaeton . By Wm . Black . 
 Sunrise. By Wm. Black. 
 Sunshine and Roses. By Bertha i.i. Clay. 
 Tale of Two Cities (A). By Charles Dickeris. 
 That Beautiful Wretch . By Wm. Black . ; 
 
 Three Feathers . By Wm . Black . 
 To The Bitter End . By Miss M . E . Braddon . 
 Tom Brown's School Days. By Thomas Hughes. 
 Tom Brown At Oxford . By Thomas Hughes. 
 
 13
 
 Two On A Tower . By Thos . Hardy. 
 Under Two Flags. By Ouida. 
 Vanity Fair. By Wm. Thackeray. 
 Wanda. By Ouida. 
 
 Wilfred Cumbermede. By Geo. Macdonald. 
 Woman's Temptation ( A) . By Bertha M . Clay 
 Wooing O't. By Mrs. Alexander. 
 Yolande. By Wm. Black. 
 Zanoni. By Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 HISTORICAL ROMANCES. 
 
 Bride of Lammermoor. By Sir Walter Scott. 
 Guy Mannering. By Sir Walter Scott. 
 Heart of Midlothian . By Sir Walter Scott. 
 Ivanhoe . By Sir Walter Scott . 
 Kenilworth. By Sir Walter Scott. 
 Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer Lyttou. 
 Redgauntlet. By Sir Walter Scott. 
 Rienzi . By Bulwer Lytton . 
 Rob Roy . By Sir Walter Scott . 
 Scottish Chiefs. By Jane Porter. 
 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Jane Porter. 
 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott. 
 Willy Reilly. By Wm. Carleton. 
 
 HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Dickens' Child's History of England. 
 
 Washington and Marion (Life of) . 
 
 Webster (Life of). By Samuel Snmcker, LL.D. 
 
 HUMOROUS FICTION. 
 
 Charles O'Malley . By Charlea Lever . 
 Handy Andy By Samuel Lover. 
 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles Lever. 
 Rory O'More. Samuel Lover. 
 
 RELIGIOUS AND DEVOTIONAL. 
 
 From Year to Year. By Alice Carey. 
 Imitation of Christ. By Thos. & Kempis. 
 Is Life Worth Living. By W. H. Mallock. 
 Pilgrim's Progress (The). By John Bunyao. 
 
 SEA TALES. 
 
 Cruise of The Black Prince (The). By Commander Cameron . 
 Five Years Before The Mast. By W. B. Hazen. 
 Jack In The Forecastle. By Hawser Martingale. 
 Mark Seaworth. By W. H. Kingston. 
 Midshipman (The) . By W . H . Kingston . 
 Peter The Whaler . By Sir Samuel Baker . 
 Pilot (The). By Fenimore Cooper. 
 Pirate (The). By Sir Walter Scott. 
 Red Eric (The) . By R . M . Ballantyne . 
 Round The World. By W . H . Kingston . 
 Salt Water. By Sir Samuel Baker. 
 
 14
 
 Sea Queen (A). By W. Clark Russell. 
 Tom Cringle's Log. By Michael Scott. 
 Two Years Before The Mast. By R. H. Dana, Jr. 
 
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 Dickens' Christmas Stories. 
 
 Dickens' Shorter Stories. 
 
 Dickens' Story Teller. 
 
 Ethan Brand. By Nathaniel Hawthorne and others. 
 
 Fern Leaves. By Fanny Fern. 
 
 Half Hours With Great Authors. 
 
 Half Hours With Great Humorists. 
 
 Half Hours With Great Novelists. 
 
 Half Hours With Great Story Tellers. 
 
 Poe's Tales . By Edgar Allan Poe . 
 
 Shadows and Sunbeams. By Fanny Fern. 
 
 True Stories From History. By Hugh DeNormand. 
 
 TRAVEL. 
 
 Eight Years' Wanderings In Ceylon. By Sir Samuel Baker. 
 Hyperion. By H. W. Longfellow. 
 Outre Mer. By H. W. Longfellow. 
 
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