Donna Quixote [A novel.] ... With ... illustrations by A. Hopkins

Front matter

DONNA QUIXOTE SECOND VOLUZME NEW NOVELS. HIGH SPIRITS. By James Payn. 3 vols. trown 8vo. [/lea'/g. UNDER WHICH LORD.' By E. LynnLinton. 3 vols. crown 8vo. CONFIDENCE. By Henry James, Jun. 2 vols. [Dec. in. QUEEN OF THE MEADOW. By Charles Gibbon. 3 vols. crown 8vo. [Dec. 16. MOTHS. By Ouida. 3 vols. crown 8vo. [Shortly. CHATTO & WIXDUS, Piccadilly, W. ' Why, this is never Clarkson I ' DONNA QUIXOTE BY JUSTIN MCCAKTHY AUTHOR OF 'DEAR LADY DISDAIN' 'MISS MISANTHROPE' ETC IN THREE VOLUMES VOL. II. With TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS by ARTHUR HOPKINS 3C o n b o tt CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1879 [The right oj translation is reserved} LONDON : PRINTED BY BPOTTI9WOODB AND in., NKW-STRRET 8Q17ARS AND PARLIAMENT STKKBT CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. CHAPTER PAGB I. The House on the Surrey Side 1 II. ' A Friend to her Friend ' 30 III.

A Man and a Brother 49 IV. ' I WILL DISCOURSE WITH MY PHILOSOPHER ' . . 09 V. ' I CLAIM YOU AS THE SlSTER OF MY SOUL ' . .92 VI. Paulina Stoops to Conquer 112 VII. The Sunstroke 141 VIII. Sir Wilberforce's Intervention . . . . 158 IX. Exorcised 171 X. Gabrielle plies to Sanctuary . . . . 195 XL Gabrielle's great Hope fulfilled . . . 210 XII. 'Furens Quid Femina.' 232 XIII ' Sir, You and I have loved ; but" that's not IT ' ILLUSTRATIONS TO THE SECOND VOLUME. Frontispiece ' Why, this is never Clarkson ? '. Claudia Lemuel at home . . . . To face p. 84 ' Oh, I am so glad you are not in bed ! ' „ 186 ' I ain't out of order ' „

Chapter I. The House On The Surrey Side

Next day, Fielding set out again for the house on the Surrey side. He had made up his mind to have some good reason for telling Grabrielle all that he knew about her husband's brother, or for telling her nothing. No doubt was now on his mind that the Vanthorpe he had known was the brother of Albert Vanthorpe. It was in Vera Cruz he first met the young Englishman, Philip Vanthorpe. They were drawn together first by their kinship of race, and afterwards by something kindred in character and in their personal history. Vanthorpe was not long without telling Fielding that he had left his home when a mere boy, simply because he could not get on with his mother, and did not like VOL. II. B z> his domestic life. Vanthorpe seemed in many respects a deeper and darker copy of Fielding ; the traits of the outlaw were more harshly marked in him ; and he had not Fielding's bright companionable careless ways, and his sunny temper.

They became close friends, and made many mining, hunting, and other enterprises together. Vanthorpe still intended to go back and live in England some time ; Fielding had no purpose of any kind. Vanthorpe told Fielding he was resolved to change his name, and did not know what other to take. ' Take my first name,' said Fielding. ' I don't want it ; I never liked it, but it has brought you and me together, for I might never have left my father if he had not called me Clarkson.' The humour of the thing pleased both of them, and Philip Vanthorpe became thenceforward Philip Clarkson. They were separated for a time, but they met again in New Orleans. A great change had taken place in Vanthorpe's fortunes ; he had married an adventuress from Europe. Some said she had been a music-hall singer ; others that she had been a barmaid in a London public-house.

Fielding could easily see that she was low London, anyhow. She was handsome, vulgar, very coquettish, and very clever in a sort of way. Vanthorpe had married her in a moment of wild admiration ; she made him very miserable ; he was repenting at leisure, and now told Fielding that his mind was made up ; that he never would return to England. He grew melancholy and penitent ; he began to think with regret of his home and his younger brother Albert, and even of the mother with whom he had quarrelled ; but he would not attempt any reconciliation now. He was never very robust in constitution, and his present life was telling heavily on him. He and his wife had one child, a boy. After a while Fielding left the Southern States, not expecting ever to see Vanthorpe again. He gave Van thorpe an address in London which would always find him.

The very day of the concert at Lady Honeybell's, and after he had seen Gabrielle there, Fielding received a letter from 'Paulina Clarkson,' telling him that her husband had been some months dead, and that she had come to London with her son for the purpose of finding out her husband's family. The news of poor Vanthorpe's death was not much of a surprise. Fielding might have expected such an announcement soon. Nor under the circumstances was n it wholly painful. It was better perhaps thus than later. But the coming of Vanthorpe's wife to London made it very hard for Fielding to know how to meet Gabrielle's questions, and helped to render his visit to her at her house specially embarrassing. After he had left Gabrielle he made up his mind to a course which he tried to follow that day ; as we know, Eobert Charlton watched him.

He failed in seeing the lady who signed herself Paulina Clarkson that day, and now he is making another attempt. This time he is successful. Mrs. Clarkson was at home. He was shown into a little parlour decorated with a mirror the gilt frame whereof was veiled in yellow gauze, and with engravings of the 'Seasons' and of the capture of Delhi, the elephants being specially prominent in the latter work of art, as if they were dignified authorities directing and inspect ing the capture. Fielding stood there thinking of the very different meeting which he was expecting only the day before while he waited for Gabrielle, and looking forward with much dislike to that now about to open. He had to wait a considerable time ; and then at last he was privileged to hear a mighty rushing of silken skirts down the narrow staircase, and a tall woman with a long train occupied rather than entered the little room.

She was very tall ; she had been very handsome ; she was no longer quite young, but she still kept up a tolerable — perhaps it would be proper to say a colour able — imitation of youth. Her hair was now dark brown, but had evidently undergone occasional changes of hue. She had a very long neck, and, •for all her fine figure, occasionally reminded one of a rocking-horse, and occasionally of a giraffe. She had splendid arms, and her sleeves were made loose in order to do them justice. Fielding's first thought, on seeing her, was to wonder grimly how Gabrielle Vanthorpe would like her sister-in-law. Perhaps it was this thought that made him stand silent after the lady had entered the room and show no great joy at seeing her. ' Why, Fielding, how you have changed ! ' was her first greeting, and she held out both hands to him.

He merely touched one. 'You don't seem very glad to see me, Mr. Fielding?' She drew close beside him as he stood near the chimney piece, and tried to fix him with her eyes. ' I don't think I am particularly glad to see you.' ' I have a name, Fielding, haven't I ? ' ' I beg your pardon ; Mrs. Clarkson.' ' Mrs. Clarkson ! Why not Paulina ? ' ' Stuff ! ' was Fielding's ungracious answer. ' I ne\ er called you Paulina in my life.' He was almost inclined to add, ' and I don't believe your godfathers and god mothers did either.' 'My hftsband is dead,' she said. 'You were his friend ; you might be a little more kind to his widow.' In truth, it was Fielding's memory of Vanthorpe and of their friendship that made him harsh to the woman now before him. He put on a less ungenial manner, however, and heard her tell the story of Van thorpe's death, which, with a prudent preparation against possible scepticism, she had had attested by formal certificates.

She told how he had left but little money, and a few gold chains and ornaments and jewels, and how she had made up her mind to come to London, and find out his people, and see if they would not receive her. The story was long, and was inter rupted by many little outbursts of emotion, and the exhibition of a good deal of impatience and anger. She saw that Fielding did not believe in her tears and her professed grief for her husband, and she occasionally told him so with renewed protestations and outbursts of anger, and now and then an oath. All the time he was thinking — ' How can I allow this creature and her to come together ? ' ' Well, Mr. Fielding,' she said at last, ' why don't you say something ? I have told you all my story ; you used to have talk enough, I remember, when you liked it.

Can't you say something now that you know what I want of you ? ' ' I wish you had not come to London at all,' he said. • I cannot see why you did come. Why didn't you remain where you were known, and where you must have had some friends ? ' ' What friends could a widowed woman have like her husband's mother ? Haven't I got great folks for relations? Ain't they bound to do something for me and for his child ? Come, Mr. Fielding, I ask you that. You think yourself very clever. Just you explain that to me : why shouldn't I seek out my husband's mother and his family ? ' ' But you don't know who they are, or where they are, and you are not likely to know from me, unless under conditions such as it seems to me right to impose on you.' ' You would impose on me fast enough, I dare say,' she said, affecting to misunderstand his words. ' But you are not likely to do that, Mr. Fielding, with all your knowledge.

I mayn't have much book-learning, but I am not to be imposed on by any fine talk.' ' All the same, you can't help yourself.' ' I don't know, Mr. Fielding ; that remains to be seen. I know very well that my husband's name wasn't Clarkson.' ' Yes, of course you know that ; there never was much of a secret made about that.' ' I dare say I could change the name soon enough if I wanted to,' she said, turning to the looking-glass. He caught at the words. ' That is just one reason why I came here to-day,' he said, ' and why I spent so much time in looking you up yesterday. I took it for granted that you would be trying for a husband in London. Now, I am not par ticularly fond of flattering women ' ' You certainly never were fond of flattering me,' she interposed with a little shrilly laugh. ' Very good.

Then I may have the less hesitation in saying that you are quite attractive and young enough to have a good chance of getting someone to fall in love with you ' ' Positively a compliment, and from Mr. Fielding — the first he ever paid me. I like it, Fielding, I can assure you.' A flush of gratified vanity passed over her face. She looked natural for the first moment during their talk. That touch of nature that makes the whole world kin is not spoken of by the poet tenderly or pathetically, as those who quote from him generally seem to think, but only in irony. Such a touch of nature as Shakespeare's Ulysses meant to describe now made this woman kin to many better and some worse of her sex. She forgot her affectation, and her deceits, and her habitual perfidy, in the little instant of un expected gratification to her vanity.

Fielding went steadily on. ' And I should think you don't want to be always encumbered with a child. A man may be willing to marry a widow who would think twice before taking her if he had to take a child as well. You know that, I suppose ? ' ' Mr. Fielding, what a low opinion of human nature you must have ! You quite astonish me.' The affectation had all come back again. ' Well, what I have to say is this. If I can arrange to have your husband's child taken care of by his people, will you give it up ? will you go away, or get married, and not trouble them ? ' ' I do declare, Fielding, you have positively no feeling. Do you think a mother's heart is like that ? ' 'You needn't try any of that on me,' Fielding answered. ' Keep it for the new admirer, whoever he is. It may take him in ; it hasn't the least effect on me.

I know that you would rather have your own comfort and your own way than all the children in the world. Your husband knew that as well as I do. He knew that you didn't care twopence for the child as compared with yourself and your own pleasures.' ' Well,' she said composedly, ' I never went in for much of the sentimental ; that's true enough. But I don't quite see why the child should be taken away from me. Why can't they receive us both — me and the child ? ' ' They may receive you both if they like ; I have no control over that. But what I say is, that I will have nothing to do with introducing you to them; and that I don't think you are the sort of person to have the bringing up of your husband's child. You know very well whether he thought so.' ' I know he didn't think so, and I know who put him up to it.

I know who was always talking against me It was you, Fielding ; it was you. You never saw any thing good in me. You were always putting him against me. Was that manly conduct, Mr. Fielding, I ask of you? Was that like a man? — you who are always talking so fine about right and wrong, and this, that, and the other ! Was it, I want to know ? ' She was angry now, and the affectation was gone a-»ain. A touch of nature of another kind was illustrat ing the universal kinship. She looked much handsomer when angry than she did when affecting genteel indiffer ence. ' I never spoke to him against you,' Fielding said, ' and you know that well enough. It was by my advice that he did not take his child and leave you long ago ; and I don't know now whether my advice wasn't a mistake. I didn't think very badly of you then ; I thought you were heartless and vain ' ' Oh, dear me, what compliments !

What a nice way for a gentleman to speak to a lady ! ' ' But that was all I thought of you. I saw you after trying to establish a flirtation over his sick bed with the doctor who was attending him. You were ready to make love to anyone behind his back ; you won't deny that to me, I suppose ? ' She grew pale with anger. ' Mr. Fielding, your conduct is most ungentleman like, I must say. A gentleman never makes such allusions as that. If a lady takes a foolish liking, out of a mere whim, not meaning any harm, it's a compliment to a gentleman ; and no gentleman ever thinks of throwing it in her face. I never before was treated so in all ' ' In all your experiences ? ' 'No, I wasn't going to say that; I hardly know what I was going to say, you put one out so. Anyhow, it ain't the part of a gentleman ; oh, there, I mean it isn't the part of a gentleman, and that I will say.

But it's no use bringing up all these old stories, and quarrelling over things. Why can't we be friends, Fielding ? Why must you be my enemy ? ' ' I am not your enemy,' Fielding said more gently. 'I would serve you if I could, for the sake of old acquaintance, and for the sake of your husband who was my friend. I felt a strong friendship for him. I could not be your friend, for you know that I think you spoiled his life, and that only for you he would have been happy, and might be alive now. But I want to help you, if I can ; and the offer I make is a proof of it.' ' An offer to take away my child from me ? ' ' You dont care about the child ; and you know you are not the person to bring up a child. Come ; I am not acting the part of an enemy to you. Think this over, and I'll come again ; but remember, you can only get to know your husband's name, or anything about him, through me.' She dropped into a chair, and folded her arms, and looked up at him with saucy half-closed eyes. 'Mr. Fielding,' she said, 'just you listen.

I ain't quite come to that yet. When all else fails, and I haven't any other hope left of finding out my husband's people, then I may talk to you about your terms. But for the present I don't see any necessity. I am only just beginning, don't you know ; and there are lots of ways of finding out things in London ; and there's no end of chances and strokes of good luck and what not, and I can wait a little. I may not want your help at all. If I find out the people, I am quite clever enough to play a goody-goody part if that suits them ; and I won't tell any stories on myself, you may be sure. I mayn't be as clever as you, Mr. Fielding ; but I'm clever enough to know that the game isn't exactly played out yet. So that's my answer, Mr. Fielding, and I hope you'll not consider me rude.' They were both playing a game of brag.

Fielding was not so confident as he professed to be about the impossibility of her finding out her husband's people except through him. She was less confident about the chances of her being able to do without him than she would have admitted. She looked at his composed face, and a wave of passion darkened her whole expression. She suddenly changed her manner of affected contempt and carelessness for one of intense anger. 'Fielding,' she said, jumping up from her chair, ' I sometimes think I hate vou : I do hate vou.' ' I don't mind,' he said ; ' I am not trying to injure -j you. ' You are trying to injure me ; you hate me, and you always did. You had better take care.' At this moment the servant entered, bringing a little tray with some cups and saucers, and went out again. Paulina came over to Fielding, and touched him on the arm, and spoke with an odd affected laugh : ' I am going to have a cup of tea ; I am quite the lady, Fielding, as you see ; I must have my afternoon tea.

I mix it after a fashion of my own ; quite particular. You will have a cup, won't you, for old acquaintance' sake, and because we are so very friendly together and so fond of one another ? ' She had moved a little away, and was standing now with her side turned to him, and was engaged in mixing the tea at a small table close to the wall. He could not see her preparations, but a faint peculiar smell was per ceptible which was certainly not familiar to Fielding in connection with the making of tea. ' See,' she said, turning towards him, ' I have poured a cup for you. It can't be a cup of kindness, I sujipose, as the song says ; but it may be a cup of unkindness. DONNA QUIXOTE. Anyhow, you won't refuse a lady, I'm sure, Mr. Field ing.' For a moment it occurred to Fielding that she might have taken it into her head to poison him ; perhaps even to poison herself at the same time.

He rejected both ideas in a moment, for what seemed to him good reasons. ' You don't like to drink it ? You are afraid ? ' she said with a laugh. ' I shall never get any good of her if she thinks she can make me afraid of her,' Fielding thought. ' Thank you,' he replied ; ' I like tea at all times ; I was going to ask you to give me a cup.' ' Indeed ! and of my own particular mixture ? ' She still held the cup in her hand, as if playing with his feelings. ' Any mixture you like,' he answered carelessly. ' I have drunk all sorts of decoctions for tea in all sorts of places. I am sure yours will be far more agreeable than most of them.' * Perhaps you won't find it so ; perhaps you won't like it quite so much as you imagine.' ' Oh, yes, thank you ; I am sure I shall like it well enough.' He stretched his hand out for the cup. ' I ought to drink first, I suppose, being the lady,' she said. 'But as you are the guest and the stranger, Fielding, perhaps you will lead the way ? ' ' Certainly, if you wish it.

True politeness consists, I have always heard, in pleasing one's hostess.' ' You really will have it ? ' She fixed her eyes so keenly on him that he could see the pupils contracting. He took the cup from her hand and bowed to her. The eyes were still fastened on him. He drank the tea. It had a somewhat peculiar perfume, but no peculiarity of taste. ' What would you say if I told you there was poison in that ? ' she asked. 'Say I didn't believe it,' Fielding answered com posedly as he handed back the cup. ' You are not afraid ? ' ' Not the least in the world.' ' Let me feel your pulse.' He stretched out his wrist to her. She felt his pulse carefully, all the time keeping her eyes maliciously fixed on him. Then she dropped his hand. VOL. II. c ' It's all right enough,' she said. ' You don't seem to be put out at all.

Yet, I suppose you wouldn't much like to be poisoned, would you ? ' ' No, I shouldn't like to be poisoned. First of all, I like being alive ; next, I fancy all poisons are more or less painful. But I am not a bit afraid of being poisoned by you just now.' ' Why not ? Do you think I am too sweet and good for such a thing ? If so, Mr. Yielding, you do me too much honour.' ' Not I ; you know very well I don't think you too sweet and good to do anything that could be done safely and with any advantage to yourself. But it wouldn't be quite safe perhaps to poison anyone in London ; and besides, you have still some hope of getting at your husband's people through me ; and if you were to poison me your only chance would be gone.' She laughed. ' You are a clever fellow, Fielding ; I always said so.

I always liked you, although you never liked me. No ; I was not trying to poison you ; I was only trying to put you into a fright. The stuff that smelt so in the cup had no harm in it. I may poison somebody some day, perhaps — I may poison myself, as like as not — but not just yet. I am not so much down upon my luck as all that. I ain't quite an old woman yet, Mr. Fielding. I mean, I am not quite an old woman. Don't you remember what fun you and Phil used to make of me for saying " I ain't " ? I am trying to be quite genteel now.' ' I remember Clarkson trying to cure you of many bad habits,' Fielding said sternly ; ' I am glad if he succeeded in any of his attempts.' ' My ! aren't we severe ? Well, as I was saying, Mr. Fielding, when you interrupted me — rudely, too, for such a teacher of politeness — I'm not quite an old woman yet,' and she glanced coquettishly at the mirror over the chimney-piece. ' There are persons who might admire me yet, although Mr. Fielding don't — I mean, does not.

Some people find a young widow very attrac tive, eh, Mr. Fielding ? ' Fielding's eyebrows involuntarily contracted. There was something in the words that grated on his ear. They sounded like the hint of a blasphemy. She was quick to see that her unmeaning words had hit him somehow. ' Well, if I don't think you must be in love with c a young widow yourself ! I've made a hit, have I ? I shall be jealous presently, Mr. Fielding.' Fielding recovered his composure. ' Very well,' he said, and he prepared to go away ; ' find out without me if you can.' ' All right,' she answered with seeming carelessness ; ' keep the secret from me, Master Fielding, if you can.' ' I shall not come any more unless you send for me, and perhaps not even then. Eemember that.' ' My compliments to the pretty widow. I'm sure there is a pretty widow,' was her somewhat irrelevant reply.

She was in a mocking humour now, and he knew it, and he saw that nothing was to be gained for his purpose by any further talk. When Fielding had gone, she abandoned herself deliberately to a frantic outburst of passion. She cried, she laughed hysterically, she stamped, she seized a bonnet that lay on a table and flung it on the floor and trod upon it again and again, she threw herself on the sofa, and that not appearing to be relief enough she threw herself on the ground and writhed and wallowed there as if she were in tortures of bodily pain. When at last she got up, her hair was all loose about her shoulders ; her dress, which she had torn and clutched at in her frenzy, was disordered ; but she seemed to have recovered some self-control. She looked in the glass, and indulged in a sharp little laugh. ' My ! what a fright I am,' were her first words. ' There, that's done me good ; I'm better now.' She began putting up her hair before the glass, and she talked to herself meanwhile. ' No, Master Fielding, you are very clever, I dare say, but you don't get over me quite so soon or so easy.

If they are so very anxious to get rid of me, all the worse for them, and all the better for me. I do believe there is some widow that my fine Master Fielding is looking after. I think I made a hit there. I hate her whoever she is, and I hate him too.' There were some symptoms of a renewal of the passion-fit at these words ; but the woman shook her shoulders and said vehemently, ' No, I won't,' as if she were compelling her temper to give a command to itself ; and she kept her word, and did not break out again. Nearly half an hour had passed in her fever fit and her recovery ; and just then the maid came and told her that a gentleman who had been there the day before had come again, and was asking after another gentleman who he said had made an appointment to meet him there. 'You fool, there has no gentleman made any appointment here,' she answered angrily. ' Don't you know that as well as I do ?

Go and tell him so ; send him out of that. . . . No, don't,' she said suddenly, bethinking her that it might be someone who knew Fielding. ' No, don't, Annie ; I'll see him. Let him wait a moment.' She ran upstairs to repair the ravages that her passionate mood had made in her hah, her eyes, and her dress ; and Robert Charlton was shown into the sitting-room. He was looking very nervous and uneasy. His thin hands trembled, and he could hardly keep his lips steady. He had followed Fielding, had seen him enter the house, and waited until Fielding came out and disappeared. Then he presented himself with his story about an appointment with a gentleman there. He was determined if possible to get to speech of the mysterious Mrs. Clarkson ; and now that his desire was about to be so easily accomplished his heart was failing him.