THE CHRONICLES OF BARSETSHIRE (Complete Collection). Anthony Trollope

      “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 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 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, 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 lead 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