Barchester Towers

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘Has he marked himself? for heaven’s sake tell me that; has he marked his knees?’ said Harry, slowly rising and rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand, and thinking only of his horse’s legs. Miss Thorne soon found that he had not broken his neck, nor any of his bones, nor been injured in any essential way. But from that time forth she never instigated anyone to ride at a quintain.

  Eleanor left Dr Stanhope as soon as she could do so civilly, and went in quest of her father, whom she found on the lawn in company with Mr Arabin. She was not sorry to find them together. She was anxious to disabuse at any rate her father’s mind as to this report which had got abroad respecting her, and would have been well pleased to have been able to do the same with regard to Mr Arabin. She put her own through her father’s arm, coming up behind his back, and then tendered her hand also to the vicar of St Ewold’s.

  ‘And how did you come?’ said Mr Harding, when the first greeting was over.

  ‘The Stanhopes brought me,’ said she; ‘their carriage was obliged to come twice, and has now gone back for the signora.’ As she spoke she caught Mr Arabin’s eye, and saw that he was looking pointedly at her with a severe expression. She understood at once the accusation contained in his glance. It said as plainly as an eye could speak, ‘Yes, you came with the Stanhopes, but did so in order that you might be in company with Mr Slope.’

  ‘Our party,’ said she, still addressing her father, ‘consisted of the doctor and Charlotte Stanhope, myself, and Mr Slope.’ As she mentioned the last name she felt her father’s arm quiver slightly beneath her touch. At the same moment Mr Arabin turned away from them, and joining his hands behind his back strolled slowly away by one of the paths.

  ‘Papa,’ said she, ‘it was impossible to help coming in the same carriage with Mr Slope; it was quite impossible. I had promised to come with them before I dreamt of his coming, and afterwards I could not get out of it without explaining and giving rise to talk. You weren’t at home, you know. I couldn’t possibly help it.’ She said all this so quickly that by the time her apology was spoken she was quite out of breath.

  ‘I don’t know why you should have wished to help it, my dear,’ said her father.

  ‘Yes, papa, you do; you must know, you do know all the things they said at Plumstead. I am sure you do. You know all the archdeacon said. How unjust he was; and Mr Arabin too. He’s a horrid man, a horrid odious man, but –’

  ‘Who is an odious man, my dear? Mr Arabin?’

  ‘No; but Mr Slope. You know I mean Mr Slope. He’s the most odious man I ever met in my life, and it was most unfortunate my having to come here in the same carriage with him. But how could I help it?’

  A great weight began to move itself off Mr Harding’s mind. So, after all, the archdeacon with all his wisdom, and Mrs Grantly with all her tact, and Mr Arabin with all his talent, were in the wrong. His own child, his Eleanor, the daughter of whom he was so proud, was not to become the wife of a Mr Slope. He had been about to give his sanction to the marriage, so certified had he been of the fact; and now he learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor’s was at any rate as much disliked by her as by anyone of the family. Mr Harding, however, was by no means sufficiently a man of the world to conceal the blunder he had made. He could not pretend that he had entertained no suspicion; he could not make believe that he had never joined the archdeacon in his surmises. He was greatly surprised, and gratified beyond measure, and he could not help showing that such was the case.

  ‘My darling girl,’ said he, ‘I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My own child; you have taken such a weight off my mind.’

  ‘But surely, papa, you didn’t think –’

  ‘I didn’t know what to think, my dear. The archdeacon told me that–’

  ‘The archdeacon!’ said Eleanor, her face lighting up with passion. ‘A man like the archdeacon might, one would think, be better employed than in traducing his sister-in-law, and creating bitterness between a father and his daughter!’

  ‘He didn’t mean to do that, Eleanor.’

  ‘What did he mean then? Why did he interfere with me, and fill your mind with such falsehood?’

  ‘Never mind it now, my child; never mind it now. We shall all know you better now.’

  ‘Oh, papa, that you should have thought it! that you should have suspected me!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by suspicion, Eleanor. There would be nothing disgraceful, you know; nothing wrong in such a marriage. Nothing that could have justified my interfering as your father.’ And Mr Harding would have proceeded in his own defence to make out that Mr Slope after all was a very good sort of man, and a very fitting second husband for a young widow, had he not been interrupted by Eleanor’s greater energy.

  ‘It would be disgraceful,’ said she; ‘it would be wrong; it would be abominable. Could I do such a horrid thing I should expect no one to speak to me. Ugh –’ and she shuddered as she thought of the matrimonial torch which her friends had been so ready to light on her behalf. ‘I don’t wonder at Dr Grantly; I don’t wonder at Susan; but, oh, papa, I do wonder at you. How could you, how could you believe it?’ Poor Eleanor, as she thought of her father’s defalcation, could resist her tears no longer, and was forced to cover her face with her handkerchief.

  The place was not very opportune for her grief. They were walking through the shrubberies, and there were many people near them. Poor Mr Harding stammered out his excuse as best he could, and Eleanor with an effort controlled her tears, and returned her handkerchief to her pocket. She did not find it difficult to forgive her father, nor could she altogether refuse to join him in the returning gaiety of spirit to which her present avowal gave rise. It was such a load off his heart to think that he should not be called on to welcome Mr Slope as his son-in-law. It was such a relief to him to find that his daughter’s feelings and his own were now, as they ever had been, in unison. He had been so unhappy for the last six weeks about this wretched Mr Slopel He was so indifferent as to the loss of the hospital, so thankful for the recovery of his daughter, that, strong as was the ground for Eleanor’s anger, she could not find it in her heart to be long angry with him.

  ‘Dear papa,’ she said, hanging closely to his arm, ‘never suspect me again: promise me that you never will. Whatever I do you may be sure I shall tell you first; you may be sure I shall consult you.’

  And Mr Harding did promise, and owned his sin, and promised again. And so, while he promised amendment and she uttered forgiveness, they returned together to the drawing-room windows.

  And what had Eleanor meant when she declared that whatever she did she would tell her father first? What was she thinking of doing?

  So ended the first act of the melodrama which Eleanor was called on to perform this day at Ullathorne.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Signora Neroni, the Countess De Courcy, and Mrs Prcudie 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 blood1 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 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, my 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-ewl’ 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 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 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. ‘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 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 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 Proudiel 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 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 by contact with the Signora Neroni, and they could abuse her as they pleased at a distance from her on the lawn.

  ‘She’s the 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.’