THE SIGNORA NERONI, THE COUNTESS DE COURCY, AND MRS PROUDIE MEET
EACH OTHER AT ULLATHORNE
And now there were new arrivals. Just as Eleanor reached the
drawing-room the signora was being wheeled into it. She had been
brought out of the carriage into the dining-room and there placed
on a sofa, and was now in the act of entering the other room, by
the joint aid of her brother and sister, Mr Arabin, and two
servants in livery. She was all in her glory, and looked so
pathetically happy, so full of affliction and grace, was so
beautiful, so pitiable, and so charming, that it was almost
impossible not to be glad she was there.
Miss Thorne was unaffectedly glad to welcome her. In fact, the
signora was a sort of lion; and though there was no drop of the
Leohunter blood in Miss Thorne's veins, she nevertheless did like
to see attractive people at her house.
The signora was attractive, and on her first settlement in the
dining-room she had whispered two or three soft feminine words into
Miss Thorne's ear, which, at the moment, had quite touched that
lady's heart.
'Oh, Miss Thorne; where is Miss Thorne?' she said, as soon as her
attendants had placed her in her position just before one of the
windows, from whence she could see all that was going on upon the
lawn; 'How am I to thank you for permitting a creature like me to
be here? But if you knew the pleasure you give me, I am sure you
would excuse the trouble I bring with me.' And as she spoke she
squeezed the spinster's little hand between her own.
'We are delighted to see you here,' said Miss Thorne; 'you give us
no trouble at all, and we think it a great favour conferred by you
to come and see us; don't we, Wilfred?'
'A very great favour indeed,' said Mr Thorne, with a gallant bow,
but of somewhat less cordial welcome than that conceded by his
sister. Mr Thorne had learned perhaps more of the antecedents of
his guest than his sister had done, and not as yet undergone the
power of the signora's charms.
But while the mother of the last of the Neros was thus in he full
splendour, with crowds of people gazing at her and the elite of the
company standing round her couch, her glory was paled by the
arrival of the Countess De Courcy. Miss Thorne had now been waiting
three hours for the countess, and could not therefore but show very
evident gratification when the arrival at last took place. She and
her brother of course went off to welcome the titled grandee, and
with them, alas, went many of the signora's admirers.
'Oh, Mr Thorne,' said the countess, while the act of being disrobed
of her fur cloaks, and re-robed in her gauze shawls, 'what dreadful
roads you have; perfectly frightful.'
It happened that Mr Thorne was way-warden for the district, and not
liking the attack, began to excuse his roads.
'Oh yes, indeed they are,' said the countess, not minding him in
the least, 'perfectly dreadful; are they not, Margaretta? Why, dear
Miss Thorne, we left Courcy Castle just at eleven; it was only just
past eleven, was it not, John? and--'
'Just past one, I think you mean,' said the Honourable John,
turning from the group and eyeing the signora through his glass.
The signora gave him back his own, as the saying is, and more with
it; so that the young nobleman was forced to avert his glance, and
drop his glass.
'I say, Thorne,' whispered he, 'who the deuce is that on the sofa?'
'Dr Stanhope's daughter,' whispered back Mr Thorne. 'Signora Neroni
she calls herself.'
'Whew-ew-ew!' whistled the Honourable John. 'The devil she is! I
have heard no end of stories about that filly. You must positively
introduce me, Thorne; you positively must.'
Mr Thorne who was respectability itself, did not quite like having
a guest about whom the Honourable John De Courcy had heard no end
of stories; but he couldn't help himself. He merely resolved that
before he went to bed he would let his sister know somewhat of the
history of the lady she was so willing to welcome. The innocence of
Miss Thorne, at her time of life, was perfectly charming; but even
innocence may be dangerous.
'John may say what he likes,' continued the countess, urging her
excuses on Miss Thorne; 'I am sure we were past the castle gate
before twelve, weren't we, Margaretta?'
'Upon my word, I don't know,' said the Lady Margaretta, 'for I was
half asleep. But I do know that I was called sometime in the middle
of the night, and was dressing myself before daylight.'
Wise people, when they are in the wrong, always put themselves
right by finding fault with the people against whom they have
sinned. Lady De Courcy was a wise woman; and therefore, having
treated Miss Thorne very badly by staying away till three o'clock,
she assumed the offensive and attacked Mr Thorne's roads. Her
daughter, not less wise, attacked Miss Thorne's early hours. The
art of doing this is among the most precious of those usually
cultivated by persons who know how to live. There is no
withstanding it. Who can go systematically to work, and having done
battle with the primary accusation and settled that, then bring
forward a counter-charge and support that also? Life is not long
enough for such labours. A man in the right relies easily on his
rectitude, and therefore goes about unarmed. His very strength is
his weakness; his very weakness is his strength. The one is never
prepared for combat, the other is always ready. Therefore it is
that in this world the man that is in the wrong almost invariably
conquers the man that is in the right, and invariably despises him.
A man must be an idiot or else an angel, who, after the age of
forty shall attempt to be just to his neighbours. Many like the
Lady Margaretta have learnt their lesson at a much earlier age. But
this of course depends on the school in which they have been
taught.
Poor Miss Thorne was altogether overcome. She knew very well that
she had been ill-treated, and yet she found herself making
apologies to Lady De Courcy. To do her ladyship justice, she
received them very graciously, and allowed herself with her train
of daughters to be led towards the lawn.
There were two windows in the drawing-room wide open for the
countess to pass through; but she saw that there was a woman on the
sofa, at the third window, and that that woman had, as it were, a
following attached to her. Her ladyship therefore determined to
investigate the woman. The De Courcys were hereditarily short
sighted, and had been so for thirty centuries at least. So Lady De
Courcy, who, when she entered the family had adopted the family
habits, did as her son had done before her, and taking her glass to
investigate the Signora Neroni, pressed in among the gentlemen who
surrounded the couch, and bowed slightly to those whom she chose to
honour by her acquaintance.
In order to get to the window she had to pass close to the front of
the couch, and as she did so she stared hard at the occupant. The
occupant in return stared hard at the countess. The countess who
since her countess-ship commenced had been accustomed to see all
eyes, not royal, ducal, or marquesal, fall down before her own,
paused as she went on, raised her eyebrows, and stared even harder
than before. But she had now to do with one who cared little for
countesses. It was, one may say, impossible for mortal man or woman
to abash Madeline Neroni. She opened her large bright lustrous eyes
wider and wider, till she seemed to be all eyes.
She gazed up into the lady's face, not as though she did it with an
effort, but as if she delighted in doing it. She used no glass to
assist her effrontery, and needed none. The faintest possible smile
of derision played round her mouth, and her nostrils were slightly
dilated, as if in sure anticipation of her triumph. And it was
sure. The Countess De Courcy, in spite of her thirty centuries and
De Courcy castle, and the fact that Lord De Courcy was grand master
of the ponies to the Prince of Wales, had not a chance with her.
At first the little circlet of gold wavered in the countess's hand,
then the hand shook, then the circlet fell, the countess's head
tossed itself into the air, and the countess's feet shambled out to
the lawn. She did not however go so fast but what she heard the
signora's voice, asking--
'Who on earth is that woman, Mr Slope?'
'That is Lady De Courcy.'
'Oh, ah. I might have supposed so. Ha, ha, ha. Well, that's as good
as a play.'
It was as good as a play to any there who had eyes to observe it,
and wit to comment on what they observed.
But the Lady De Courcy soon found a congenial spirit on the lawn.
There she encountered Mrs Proudie, and as Mrs Proudie was not only
the wife of a bishop, but was also the cousin of an earl, Lady De
Courcy considered her to be the fittest companion she was likely to
meet in that assemblage. They were accordingly delighted to see
each other. Mrs Proudie by no means despised a countess, and as
this countess lived in the county and within a sort of extensive
visiting distance of Barchester, she was glad to have this
opportunity of ingratiating herself.
'My dear Lady De Courcy, I am so delighted,' said she, looking as
little grim as it was in her nature to do so. 'I hardly expected to
see you here. It is such a distance, and then you know, such a
crowd.'
'And such roads, Mrs Proudie! I really wonder how the people ever
get about. But I don't suppose they ever do.'
'Well, I really don't know; but I suppose not. The Thorne don't, I
know,' said Mrs Proudie. 'Very nice person, Miss Thorne, isn't
she?'
'Oh, delightful and so queer; I've known her these twenty years. A
great pet of mine is dear Miss Thorne. She is so very strange, you
know. She always makes me think of the Esquimaux and the Indians.
Isn't her dress quite delightful?'
'Delightful,' said Mrs Proudie; 'I wonder now whether she paints.
Did you ever see such colour?'
'Oh, of course,' said Lady De Courcy; 'that is, I have no doubt she
does. But, Mrs Proudie, who is that woman on the sofa by the
window? just step this way and you'll see her, there--' and the
countess led her to a spot where she could plainly see the
signora's well-remembered face and figure.
She did not however do so without being equally well seen by the
signora. 'Look, look,' said that lady to Mr Slope, who was still
standing near to her; 'see the high spiritualities and
temporalities of the land in league together, and all against poor
me. I'll wager my bracelet, Mr Slope against your next sermon, that
they've taken up their position there on purpose to pull me to
pieces. Well, I can't rush to the combat, but I know how to protect
myself if the enemy come near me.'
But the enemy knew better. They could gain nothing be contact with
the signora Neroni, and they could abuse her as they pleased at a
distance from her on the lawn.
'She's that horrid Italian woman, Lady De Courcy; you must have
heard of her.'
'What Italian woman?' said her ladyship, quite alive to the coming
story; 'I don't think I've heard of any Italian woman coming into
the country. She doesn't look Italian either.'
'Oh, you must have heard of her,' said Mrs Proudie. 'No, she's not
absolutely Italian. She is Dr Stanhope's daughter--Dr Stanhope the
prebendary; and she calls herself the Signora Neroni.'
'Oh--h--h--h!' exclaimed the countess.
'I was sure you had heard of her,' continued Mrs Proudie. 'I don't
know anything about her husband. They do say that some man named
Neroni is still alive. I believe she did marry such a man abroad,
but I do not at all know who or what he was.'
'Ah--h--h--h!' said the countess, shaking her head with much
intelligence, as every additional 'h' fell from her lips. 'I know
all about it now. I have heard George mention her. George knows all
about her. George heard about her in Rome.'
'She's an abominable woman at any rate,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Insufferable,' said the countess.
'She made her way into the palace once, before I knew anything
about her; and I cannot tell you how dreadfully indecent her
conduct was.'
'Was it?' said the delighted countess.
'Insufferable,' said the prelatess.
'But why does she lie on a sofa?' asked the Lady De Courcy.
'She has only one leg,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Only one leg!' said the Lady De Courcy, who felt to a certain
degree dissatisfied that the signora was thus incapacitated. 'Was
she born so?'
'Oh, no,' said Mrs Proudie,--and her ladyship felt somewhat
recomforted by the assurance,--'she had two. But that Signor Neroni
beat her, I believe, till she was obliged to have one amputated. At
any rate she entirely lost the use of it.'
'Unfortunate creature!' said the countess, who herself knew
something of matrimonial trials.
'Yes,' said Mrs Proudie; 'one would pity her, in spite of her past
bad conduct, if she knew how to behave herself. But she does not.
She is the most insolent creature I have ever put my eyes on.'
'Indeed she is,' said Lady De Courcy.
'And her conduct with men is abominable, that she is not fit to be
admitted into any lady's drawing-room.'
'Dear me!' said the countess, becoming again excited, happy, and
merciless.
'You saw that man standing near her,--the clergyman with the red
hair?'
'Yes, yes.'
'She has absolutely ruined that man. The bishop, or I should rather
take the blame on myself, for it was I,--I brought him down from
London to Barchester. He is a tolerable preacher, an active young
man, and I therefore introduced him to the bishop. That woman, Lady
De Courcy, has got hold of him, and has so disgraced him, that I am
forced to required that he shall leave the palace; and I doubt very
much whether he won't lose his gown.'
'Why what an idiot the man must be!' said the countess.
'You don't know the intriguing villainy of that woman,' said Mrs
Proudie, remembering her own torn flounces.
'But you say she has only got one leg!'
'She is as full of mischief as tho' she had ten. Look at her eyes,
Lady De Courcy. Did you ever see such eyes in a decent woman's
head?'
'Indeed I never did, Mrs Proudie.'
'And her effrontery, and her voice; I quite pity her poor father,
who is really a good sort of man.'
'Dr Stanhope, isn't he?'
'Yes, Dr Stanhope. He is one of our prebendaries,--a good quiet
sort of man himself. But I am surprised that he should let his
daughter conduct herself as he does.'
'I suppose he can't help it,' said the countess.
'But a clergyman, you know, Lady De Courcy! He should at any rate
prevent her from exhibiting in public, if he cannot induce her to
behave at home. But he is to be pitied. I believe he has a
desperate life of it with the lot of them. That apish-looking man
there, with the long beard and the loose trousers,--he is the
woman's brother. He is nearly as bad as she is. They are both of
them infidels.'
'Infidels!' said Lady De Courcy, 'and their father a prebendary!'
'Yes, and likely to be the new dean too,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Oh, yes, poor dear Dr Trefoil!' said the countess, who had once in
her life spoken to that gentleman; 'I was so distressed to hear it,
Mrs Proudie. And so Dr Stanhope is to be the new dean! He comes of
an excellent family, and I wish him success in spite of his
daughter. Perhaps, Mrs Proudie, when he is dean, they'll be better
able to see the error of their ways.'
To this Mrs Proudie said nothing. Her dislike of the Signora Neroni
was too deep to admit of her even hoping that that lady should see
the error of her ways. Mrs Proudie looked on the signora as one of
the lost,--one of those beyond the reach of Christian charity, and
was therefore able to enjoy the luxury of hating her, without the
drawback of wishing her eventually well out of her sins.
Any further conversation between these congenial souls was
prevented by the advent of Mr Thorne, who came to lead the countess
to the tent. Indeed, he had been desired to do so some ten minutes
since; but he had been delayed in the drawing-room by the signora.
She had contrived to detain him, to bet him near to her sofa, and
at last to make him seat himself on a chair close to her beautiful
arm. The fish took the bait, was hooked, and caught, and landed.
Within that ten minutes he had heard the whole of signora's history
in such strains as she chose to use in telling it. He learnt from
the lady's own lips the whole of that mysterious tale to which the
Honourable George had merely alluded. He discovered that the
beautiful creature lying before him had been more sinned against
than sinning. She had owned to him that she had been weak,
confiding and indifferent to the world's opinion, and that she had
therefore been ill-used, deceived and evil spoken of. She had
spoken to him of her mutilated limb, her youth destroyed in the
fullest bloom, her beauty robbed of its every charm, her life
blighted, her hopes withered; and as she did so, a tear dropped
from her eye to her cheek. She had told him of these things, and
asked for his sympathy.
What could a good-natured genial Anglo-Saxon Squire Thorne do but
promise to sympathise with her? Mr Thorne did promise to
sympathise; promised also to come and see the last of the Neros, to
hear more of those fearful Roman days, of those light and innocent
but dangerous hours which flitted by so fast on the shores of Como,
and to make himself the confidant of the signora's sorrows.
We need hardly say that he dropped all idea of warning his sister
against the dangerous lady. He had been mistaken; never so much
mistaken in his life. He had always regarded that Honourable George
as a coarse brutal-minded young man; now he was more convinced than
ever that he was so. It was by such men as the Honourable George
that the reputation of such women as Madeline Neroni were
imperilled and damaged. He would go and see the lady in her own
house; he was fully sure in his own mind of the soundness of his
own judgment; if he found her, as he believed he should do, an
injured well-disposed, warm-hearted woman, he would get his sister
Monica to invite her out to Ullathorne.
'No,' said she, as at her instance he got up to leave her, and
declared that he himself would attend upon her wants; 'no, no, my
friend; I positively put a veto upon your doing so. What, in your
own house, with an assemblage round you such as there is here! Do
you wish to make every woman hate me and every man stare at me? I
lay a positive order on you not to come near me again to-day. Come
and see me at home. It is only at home that I can talk; it is only
at home that I really can live and enjoy myself. My days of going
out, days such as these, are rare indeed. Come and see me at home,
Mr Thorne, and then I will not bid you to leave me.'
It is, we believe, common with young men of five and twenty to look
on their seniors--on men of, say, double their own age--as so many
stocks and stones--stocks and stones, that is, in regard to
feminine beauty. There never was a greater mistake. Women, indeed,
generally know better; but on this subject men of one age are
thoroughly ignorant of what is the very nature of mankind of other
ages. No experience of what goes on in the world, no reading of
history, no observation of life, has any effect in teaching the
truth. Men of fifty don't dance mazurkas, being generally too fat
and wheezy; nor do they sit for the hour together on river banks at
their mistresses' feet, being somewhat afraid of rheumatism. But
for real true love, love at first sight, love to devotion, love
that robs a man of his sleep, love that 'will gaze an eagle blind,'
love that 'will hear the lowest sound when the suspicious tread of
theft is stopped,' love that is 'like a Hercules still climbing
trees in the Hesperides,'--we believe this best age is from
forty-five to seventy; up to that, men are generally given to mere
flirting.
At the present moment Mr Thorne, aetat. fifty, was over head and
ears in love at first sight with the Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni,
nata Stanhope.
Nevertheless he was sufficiently master of himself to offer his arm
with all propriety to Lady De Courcy, and the countess graciously
permitted herself to be led to the tent.
Such had been Miss Thorne's orders, as she had succeeded in
inducing the bishop to lead old Lady Knowle to the top of the
dining-room. One of the baronets was sent off in quest of Mrs
Proudie, and found that lady on the lawn not in the best of
humours. Mr Thorne and the countess had left her too abruptly; she
had in vain looked about for an attendant chaplain, or even a stray
curate; they were all drawing long bows with the young ladies at
the bottom of the lawn, or finding places for their graceful
co-toxophilites in some snug corner of the tent. In such position
Mrs Proudie had been wont in earlier days to fall back upon Mr
Slope; but now she could never fall back upon him again. She gave
her head one shake as she thought of her lone position, and that
shake was as good as a week deducted from Mr Slope's longer sojourn
in Barchester. Sir Harkaway Gorse, however, relieved her present
misery, though his doing so by no means mitigated the sinning
chaplain's doom.
And now the eating and drinking began in earnest. Dr Grantly, to
his great horror, found himself leagued to Mrs Clantantram. Mrs
Clantantram had a great regard for the archdeacon, which was not
cordially returned; and when she, coming up to him, whispered in
his ear, 'Come, archdeacon, I'm sure you won't begrudge an old
friend the favour of your arm,' and then proceeded to tell him the
whole history of her roquelaure, he resolved that he would shake
her off before he was fifteen minutes older. But latterly the
archdeacon had not been successful in his resolutions; and on the
present occasion Mrs Clantantram stuck to him till the banquet was
over.
Dr Gwynne got a baronet's wife, and Mrs Grantly fell to the lot of
a baronet. Charlotte Stanhope attached herself to Mr Harding in
order to make room for Bertie, who succeeded in sitting down in the
dining-room next to Mrs Bold. To speak sooth, now that he had love
in earnest to make, his heart almost failed him.
Eleanor had been right glad to avail herself of his arm, seeing
that Mr Slope was hovering nigh her. In striving to avoid that
terrible Charybdis of a Slope she was in great danger of falling
into an unseen Scylla on the other hand, that Scylla being Bertie
Stanhope. Nothing could be more gracious than she was to Bertie.
She almost jumped at his proffered arm. Charlotte perceived this
from a distance, and triumphed in her heart; Bertie felt it, and
was encouraged; Mr Slope saw it, and glowered with jealousy.
Eleanor and Bertie sat down to table in the dining-room; and as she
took her seat at his right hand, she found that Mr Slope was
already in possession of the chair at her own.
As these things were going on in the dining-room, Mr Arabin was
hanging enraptured and alone over the signora's sofa; and Eleanor
from her seat could look through the open door and see that he was
doing so.