CHAPTER XXXVII

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 a somewhat less cordial welcome than that conceded by his sister.

Mr. Thorne had heard perhaps more of the antecedents of his guest

than his sister had done, and had not as yet undergone the power of

the signora's charms.

But while the mother of the last of the Neros was thus in her full

splendour, with crowds of people gazing at her and the élite 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 grandees, and with

them, alas, went many of the signora's admirers.

"Oh, Mr. Thorne," said the countess, while in the act of being

disrobed of her fur cloaks and rerobed in her gauze shawls, "what

dreadful roads you have; perfectly frightful."

It happened that Mr. Thorne was waywarden 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, my dear

Miss Thorne, we left Courcy Castle just at eleven; it was only just

past eleven, was it not, George? And--"

"Just past one I think you mean," said the Honourable George, 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 George. "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 George 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.

"George may say what he likes," continued the countess, urging her

excuses to 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 some time 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 countercharge 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. A man in the wrong knows

that he must look to his weapons; 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 a 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 Courcy's were hereditarily shortsighted, 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 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. "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 Thornes 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 Eskimos 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 by 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."

"Oh-h-h-h!" exclaimed 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 Lady De Courcy.

"She has only one leg," replied Mrs. Proudie.

"Only one leg!" said 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 some what

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 now knew how to behave herself. But she does not.

She is the most insolent creature I ever put my eyes on."

"Indeed she is," said Lady De Courcy.

"And her conduct with men is so 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

require 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 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 she 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 get 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 the 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 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 sympathize with her? Mr. Thorne did promise to sympathize;

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 reputations 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 judgement; 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 the best age is from forty-five to seventy; up to that, men

are generally given to mere flirting.

At the present moment Mr. Thorne, _ætat_. 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.