‘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 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 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 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 Or 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 its 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 today. 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 r
heumatism. 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’2 – 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, 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 longbows 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 Slope she was in great danger of falling into an unseen Scylla on the other hand, that Scylla being Bertie Stanhope.3 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.
CHAPTER 4
The Bishop Breakfasts, and the Dean Dies
THE Bishop of Barchester said grace over the well-spread board in the Ullathorne dining-room; and while he did so the last breath was flying from the Dean of Barchester as he lay in his sick-room in the deanery. When the Bishop of Barchester raised his first glass of champagne to his lips, the deanship of Barchester was a good thing in the gift of the prime minister. Before the Bishop of Barchester had left the table, the minister of the day was made aware of the fact at his country seat in Hampshire, and had already turned over in his mind the names of five very respectable aspirants for the preferment. It is at present only necessary to say that Mr Slope’s name was not among the five.
‘’T was merry in the hall when the beards wagged all’;1 and the clerical beards wagged merrily in the hall of Ullathorne that day. It was not till after the last cork had been drawn, the last speech made, the last nut cracked, that tidings reached and were whispered about that the poor dean was no more. It was well for the happiness of the clerical beards that this little delay took place, as otherwise decency would have forbidden them to wag at all.
But there was one sad man among them that day. Mr Arabin’s beard did not wag as it should have done. He had come there hoping the best, striving to think the best, about Eleanor; turning over in his mind all the words he remembered to have fallen from her about Mr Slope, and trying to gather from them a conviction unfavourable to his rival. He had not exactly resolved to come that day to some decisive proof as to the widow’s intention; but he had meant, if possible, to recultivate his friendship with Eleanor; and in his present frame of mind any such recultivation must have ended in a declaration of love.
He had passed the previous night alone at his new parsonage, and it was the first night that he had so passed. It had been dull and sombre enough. Mrs Grantly had been right in saying that a priestess would be wanting at St Ewold’s. He had sat there alone with his glass before him, and then with his teapot, thinking about Eleanor Bold. As is usual in such meditations, he did little but blame her; blame her for liking Mr Slope, and blame her for not liking him; blame her for her cordiality to himself, and blame her for her want of cordiality; blame her for being stubborn, headstrong, and passionate; and yet the more he thought of her the higher she rose in his affection. If only it should turn out, if only it could be made to turn out, that she had defended Mr Slope, not from love, but on principle, all would be right. Such principle in itself would be admirable, lovable, womanly; he felt that he could be pleased to allow Mr Slope just so much favour as that. But if – And then Mr Arabin poked his fire most unnecessarily, spoke crossly to his new parlourmaid who came in for the tea-things, and threw himself back in his chair determined to go to sleep. Why had she been so stiffnecked when asked a plain question? She could not but have known in what light he regarded her. Why had she not answered a plain question, and so put an end to his misery? Then, instead of going to sleep in his armchair, Mr Arabin walked about the room as though he had been possessed.
On the following morning, when he attended Miss Thorne’s behests, he was still in a somewhat confused state. His first duty had been to converse with Mrs Clantantram, and that lady had found it impossible to elicit the slightest sympathy from him on the subject of her roquelaure. Miss Thorne had asked him whether Mrs Bold was coming with the Grantlys; and the two names of Bold and Grantly together had nearly made him jump from his seat.
He was in this state of confused uncertainty, hope, and doubt, when he saw Mr Slope, with his most polished smile, handing Eleanor out of her carriage. He thought of nothing more. He never considered whether the carriage belonged to her or to Mr Slope, or to anyone else to whom they might both be mutually obliged without any concert between themselves. This sight in his present state of mind was quite enough to upset him and his resolves. It was clear as noonday. Had he seen her handed into a carriage by Mr Slope at a church door with a white veil over her head, the truth could not be more manifest He went into the house, and, as we have seen, soon found himself walking with Mr Harding. Shortly afterwards Eleanor came up; and then he had to leave his companion, and either go about alone or find another. While in this state he was encountered by the archdeacon.
‘I wonder,’ said Dr Grantly, ‘if it be true that Mr Slope and Mrs Bold came here together. Susan says she is almost sure she saw their faces in the same carriage as she got out of her own.’
Mr Arabin had nothing for it but to bear his testimony to the correctness of Mrs Grantly’s eyesight.
‘It is perfectly shameful,’ said the archdeacon; ‘or I should rather say, shameless. She was asked here as my guest; and if she be
determined to disgrace herself, she should have feeling enough not to do so before my immediate friends. I wonder how that man got himself invited. I wonder whether she had the face to bring him.’
To this Mr Arabin could answer nothing, nor did he wish to answer anything. Though he abused Eleanor to himself, he did not choose to abuse her to anyone else, nor was he well pleased to hear anyone else speak ill of her. Dr Grantly, however, was very angry, and did not spare his sister-in-law. Mr Arabin therefore left him as soon as he could, and wandered back into the house.
He had not been there long, when the signora was brought in. For some time he kept himself out of temptation, and merely hovered round her at a distance; but as soon as Mr Thorme had left her, he yielded himself up to the basilisk, and allowed himself to be made prey of.
It is impossible to say how the knowledge had been acquired, but the signora had a sort of instinctive knowledge that Mr Arabin was an admirer of Mrs Bold. Men hunt foxes by the aid of dogs, and are aware that they do so by the strong organ of smell with which the dog is endowed. They do not, however, in the least comprehend how such a sense can work with such acuteness. The organ by which women instinctively, as it were, know and feel how other women are regarded by men, and how also men are regarded by other women, is equally strong, and equally incomprehensible. A glance, a word, a motion, suffices: by some such acute exercise of her feminine senses the signora was aware that Mr Arabin loved Eleanor Bold; and therefore, by a further exercise of her peculiar feminine propensities, it was quite natural for her to entrap Mr Arabin into her net.
The work was half done before she came to Ullathorne, and when could she have a better opportunity of completing it? She had had almost enough of Mr Slope, though she could not quite resist the fun of driving a very sanctimonious clergyman to madness by a desperate and ruinous passion. Mr Thorne had fallen too easily to give much pleasure in the chase. His position as a man of wealth might make his alliance of value, but as a lover he was very second-rate. We may say that she regarded him somewhat as a sportsman does a pheasant. The bird is so easily shot, that he would not be worth the shooting were it not for the very respectable appearance that he makes in a larder. The signora would not waste much time in shooting Mr Thorne, but still he was worth bagging for family uses.
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