Chapter I
A Duet in Paradise
The well-furnished drawing-room, with the open grand piano, and thepleasant outlook down a sloping garden to a boat-house by the side ofthe Floss, is Mr. Deane's. The neat little lady in mourning, whoselight-brown ringlets are falling over the colored embroidery withwhich her fingers are busy, is of course Lucy Deane; and the fineyoung man who is leaning down from his chair to snap the scissors inthe extremely abbreviated face of the ”King Charles” lying on theyoung lady's feet is no other than Mr. Stephen Guest, whose diamondring, attar of roses, and air of _nonchalant_ leisure, at twelveo'clock in the day, are the graceful and odoriferous result of thelargest oil-mill and the most extensive wharf in St. Ogg's. There isan apparent triviality in the action with the scissors, but yourdiscernment perceives at once that there is a design in it which makesit eminently worthy of a large-headed, long-limbed young man; for yousee that Lucy wants the scissors, and is compelled, reluctant as shemay be, to shake her ringlets back, raise her soft hazel eyes, smileplayfully down on the face that is so very nearly on a level with herknee, and holding out her little shell-pink palm, to say,--
”My scissors, please, if you can renounce the great pleasure ofpersecuting my poor Minny.”
The foolish scissors have slipped too far over the knuckles, it seems,and Hercules holds out his entrapped fingers hopelessly.
”Confound the scissors! The oval lies the wrong way. Please draw themoff for me.”
”Draw them off with your other hand,” says Miss Lucy, roguishly.
”Oh, but that's my left hand; I'm not left-handed.”
Lucy laughs, and the scissors are drawn off with gentle touches fromtiny tips, which naturally dispose Mr. Stephen for a repetition _dacapo_. Accordingly, he watches for the release of the scissors, thathe may get them into his possession again.
”No, no,” said Lucy, sticking them in her band, ”you shall not have myscissors again,--you have strained them already. Now don't set Minnygrowling again. Sit up and behave properly, and then I will tell yousome news.”
”What is that?” said Stephen, throwing himself back and hanging hisright arm over the corner of his chair. He might have been sitting forhis portrait, which would have represented a rather striking young manof five-and-twenty, with a square forehead, short dark-brown hair,standing erect, with a slight wave at the end, like a thick crop ofcorn, and a half-ardent, half-sarcastic glance from under hiswell-marked horizontal eyebrows. ”Is it very important news?”
”Yes, very. Guess.”
”You are going to change Minny's diet, and give him three ratafiassoaked in a dessert-spoonful of cream daily?”
”Quite wrong.”
”Well, then, Dr. Kenn has been preaching against buckram, and youladies have all been sending him a roundrobin, saying, 'This is a harddoctrine; who can bear it?'”
”For shame!” said Lucy, adjusting her little mouth gravely. ”It israther dull of you not to guess my news, because it is about somethingI mentioned to you not very long ago.”
”But you have mentioned many things to me not long ago. Does yourfeminine tyranny require that when you say the thing you mean is oneof several things, I should know it immediately by that mark?”
”Yes, I know you think I am silly.”
”I think you are perfectly charming.”
”And my silliness is part of my charm?”
”I didn't say _that_.”
”But I know you like women to be rather insipid. Philip Wakem betrayedyou; he said so one day when you were not here.”
”Oh, I know Phil is fierce on that point; he makes it quite a personalmatter. I think he must be love-sick for some unknown lady,--someexalted Beatrice whom he met abroad.”
”By the by,” said Lucy, pausing in her work, ”it has just occurred tome that I never found out whether my cousin Maggie will object to seePhilip, as her brother does. Tom will not enter a room where Philipis, if he knows it; perhaps Maggie may be the same, and then wesha'n't be able to sing our glees, shall we?”
”What! is your cousin coming to stay with you?” said Stephen, with alook of slight annoyance.
”Yes; that was my news, which you have forgotten. She's going to leaveher situation, where she has been nearly two years, poor thing,--eversince her father's death; and she will stay with me a month ortwo,--many months, I hope.”
”And am I bound to be pleased at that news?”
”Oh no, not at all,” said Lucy, with a little air of pique. ”_I_ ampleased, but that, of course, is no reason why _you_ should bepleased. There is no girl in the world I love so well as my cousinMaggie.”
”And you will be inseparable I suppose, when she comes. There will beno possibility of a _tete-a-tete_ with you any more, unless you canfind an admirer for her, who will pair off with her occasionally. Whatis the ground of dislike to Philip? He might have been a resource.”
”It is a family quarrel with Philip's father. There were very painfulcircumstances, I believe. I never quite understood them, or knew themall. My uncle Tulliver was unfortunate and lost all his property, andI think he considered Mr. Wakem was somehow the cause of it. Mr. Wakembought Dorlcote Mill, my uncle's old place, where he always lived. Youmust remember my uncle Tulliver, don't you?”
”No,” said Stephen, with rather supercilious indifference. ”I'vealways known the name, and I dare say I knew the man by sight, apartfrom his name. I know half the names and faces in the neighborhood inthat detached, disjointed way.”
”He was a very hot-tempered man. I remember, when I was a little girland used to go to see my cousins, he often frightened me by talking asif he were angry. Papa told me there was a dreadful quarrel, the veryday before my uncle's death, between him and Mr. Wakem, but it washushed up. That was when you were in London. Papa says my uncle wasquite mistaken in many ways; his mind had become embittered. But Tomand Maggie must naturally feel it very painful to be reminded of thesethings. They have had so much, so very much trouble. Maggie was atschool with me six years ago, when she was fetched away because of herfather's misfortunes, and she has hardly had any pleasure since, Ithink. She has been in a dreary situation in a school since uncle'sdeath, because she is determined to be independent, and not live withaunt Pullet; and I could hardly wish her to come to me then, becausedear mamma was ill, and everything was so sad. That is why I want herto come to me now, and have a long, long holiday.”
”Very sweet and angelic of you,” said Stephen, looking at her with anadmiring smile; ”and all the more so if she has the conversationalqualities of her mother.”
”Poor aunty! You are cruel to ridicule her. She is very valuable to_me_, I know. She manages the house beautifully,--much better than anystranger would,--and she was a great comfort to me in mamma'sillness.”
”Yes, but in point of companionship one would prefer that she shouldbe represented by her brandy-cherries and cream-cakes. I think with ashudder that her daughter will always be present in person, and haveno agreeable proxies of that kind,--a fat, blond girl, with round blueeyes, who will stare at us silently.”
”Oh yes!” exclaimed Lucy, laughing wickedly, and clapping her hands,”that is just my cousin Maggie. You must have seen her!”
”No, indeed; I'm only guessing what Mrs. Tulliver's daughter must be;and then if she is to banish Philip, our only apology for a tenor,that will be an additional bore.”
”But I hope that may not be. I think I will ask you to call on Philipand tell him Maggie is coming to-morrow. He is quite aware of Tom'sfeeling, and always keeps out of his way; so he will understand, ifyou tell him, that I asked you to warn him not to come until I writeto ask him.”
”I think you had better write a pretty note for me to take; Phil is sosensitive, you know, the least thing might frighten him off coming atall, and we had hard work to get him. I can never induce him to cometo the park; he doesn't like my sisters, I think. It is only yourfaery touch that can lay his ruffled feathers.”
Stephen mastered the little hand that was straying toward the table,and touched it lightly with his lips. Little Lucy felt very proud andhappy. She and Stephen were in that stage of courtship which makes themost exquisite moment of youth, the freshest blossom-time ofpassion,--when each is sure of the other's love, but no formaldeclaration has been made, and all is mutual divination, exalting themost trivial word, the lightest gesture, into thrills delicate anddelicious as wafted jasmine scent. The explicitness of an engagementwears off this finest edge of susceptibility; it is jasmine gatheredand presented in a large bouquet.
”But it is really odd that you should have hit so exactly on Maggie'sappearance and manners,” said the cunning Lucy, moving to reach herdesk, ”because she might have been like her brother, you know; and Tomhas not round eyes; and he is as far as possible from staring atpeople.”
”Oh, I suppose he is like the father; he seems to be as proud asLucifer. Not a brilliant companion, though, I should think.”
”I like Tom. He gave me my Minny when I lost Lolo; and papa is veryfond of him: he says Tom has excellent principles. It was through himthat his father was able to pay all his debts before he died.”
”Oh, ah; I've heard about that. I heard your father and mine talkingabout it a little while ago, after dinner, in one of theirinterminable discussions about business. They think of doing somethingfor young Tulliver; he saved them from a considerable loss by ridinghome in some marvellous way, like Turpin, to bring them news about thestoppage of a bank, or something of that sort. But I was rather drowsyat the time.”
Stephen rose from his seat, and sauntered to the piano, humming infalsetto, ”Graceful Consort,” as he turned over the volume of ”TheCreation,” which stood open on the desk.
”Come and sing this,” he said, when he saw Lucy rising.
”What, 'Graceful Consort'? I don't think it suits your voice.”
”Never mind; it exactly suits my feeling, which, Philip will have it,is the grand element of good singing. I notice men with indifferentvoices are usually of that opinion.”
”Philip burst into one of his invectives against 'The Creation' theother day,” said Lucy, seating herself at the piano. ”He says it has asort of sugared complacency and flattering make-believe in it, as ifit were written for the birthday _fete_ of a German Grand-Duke.”
”Oh, pooh! He is the fallen Adam with a soured temper. We are Adam andEve unfallen, in Paradise. Now, then,--the recitative, for the sake ofthe moral. You will sing the whole duty of woman,--'And from obediencegrows my pride and happiness.'”
”Oh no, I shall not respect an Adam who drags the _tempo_, as youwill,” said Lucy, beginning to play the duet.
Surely the only courtship unshaken by doubts and fears must be that inwhich the lovers can sing together. The sense of mutual fitness thatsprings from the two deep notes fulfilling expectation just at theright moment between the notes of the silvery soprano, from theperfect accord of descending thirds and fifths, from the preconcertedloving chase of a fugue, is likely enough to supersede any immediatedemand for less impassioned forms of agreement. The contralto will notcare to catechise the bass; the tenor will foresee no embarrassingdearth of remark in evenings spent with the lovely soprano. In theprovinces, too, where music was so scarce in that remote time, howcould the musical people avoid falling in love with each other? Evenpolitical principle must have been in danger of relaxation under suchcircumstances; and the violin, faithful to rotten boroughs, must havebeen tempted to fraternize in a demoralizing way with a reformingvioloncello. In that case, the linnet-throated soprano and thefull-toned bass singing,--
”With thee delight is ever new, With thee is life incessant bliss,”
believed what they sang all the more _because_ they sang it.
”Now for Raphael's great song,” said Lucy, when they had finished theduet. ”You do the 'heavy beasts' to perfection.”
”That sounds complimentary,” said Stephen, looking at his watch. ”ByJove, it's nearly half-past one! Well, I can just sing this.”
Stephen delivered with admirable ease the deep notes representing thetread of the heavy beasts; but when a singer has an audience of two,there is room for divided sentiments. Minny's mistress was charmed;but Minny, who had intrenched himself, trembling, in his basket assoon as the music began, found this thunder so little to his tastethat he leaped out and scampered under the remotest _chiffonnier_, asthe most eligible place in which a small dog could await the crack ofdoom.
”Adieu, 'graceful consort,'” said Stephen, buttoning his coat acrosswhen he had done singing, and smiling down from his tall height, withthe air of rather a patronizing lover, at the little lady on themusic-stool. ”My bliss is not incessant, for I must gallop home. Ipromised to be there at lunch.”
”You will not be able to call on Philip, then? It is of noconsequence; I have said everything in my note.”
”You will be engaged with your cousin to-morrow, I suppose?”
”Yes, we are going to have a little family-party. My cousin Tom willdine with us; and poor aunty will have her two children together forthe first time. It will be very pretty; I think a great deal aboutit.”
”But I may come the next day?”
”Oh yes! Come and be introduced to my cousin Maggie; though you canhardly be said not to have seen her, you have described her so well.”
”Good-bye, then.” And there was that slight pressure of the hands, andmomentary meeting of the eyes, which will often leave a little ladywith a slight flush and smile on her face that do not subsideimmediately when the door is closed, and with an inclination to walkup and down the room rather than to seat herself quietly at herembroidery, or other rational and improving occupation. At least thiswas the effect on Lucy; and you will not, I hope, consider it anindication of vanity predominating over more tender impulses, that shejust glanced in the chimney-glass as her walk brought her near it. Thedesire to know that one has not looked an absolute fright during a fewhours of conversation may be construed as lying within the bounds of alaudable benevolent consideration for others. And Lucy had so much ofthis benevolence in her nature that I am inclined to think her smallegoisms were impregnated with it, just as there are people notaltogether unknown to you whose small benevolences have a predominantand somewhat rank odor of egoism. Even now, that she is walking up anddown with a little triumphant flutter of her girlish heart at thesense that she is loved by the person of chief consequence in hersmall world, you may see in her hazel eyes an ever-present sunnybenignity, in which the momentary harmless flashes of personal vanityare quite lost; and if she is happy in thinking of her lover, it isbecause the thought of him mingles readily with all the gentleaffections and good-natured offices with which she fills her peacefuldays. Even now, her mind, with that instantaneous alternation whichmakes two currents of feeling or imagination seem simultaneous, isglancing continually from Stephen to the preparations she has onlyhalf finished in Maggie's room. Cousin Maggie should be treated aswell as the grandest lady-visitor,--nay, better, for she should haveLucy's best prints and drawings in her bedroom, and the very finestbouquet of spring flowers on her table. Maggie would enjoy all that,she was so found of pretty things! And there was poor aunt Tulliver,that no one made any account of, she was to be surprised with thepresent of a cap of superlative quality, and to have her health drunkin a gratifying manner, for which Lucy was going to lay a plot withher father this evening. Clearly, she had not time to indulge in longreveries about her own happy love-affairs. With this thought shewalked toward the door, but paused there.
”What's the matter, then, Minny?” she said, stooping in answer to somewhimpering of that small quadruped, and lifting his glossy headagainst her pink cheek. ”Did you think I was going without you? Come,then, let us go and see Sinbad.”
Sinbad was Lucy's chestnut horse, that she always fed with her ownhand when he was turned out in the paddock. She was fond of feedingdependent creatures, and knew the private tastes of all the animalsabout the house, delighting in the little rippling sounds of hercanaries when their beaks were busy with fresh seed, and in the smallnibbling pleasures of certain animals which, lest she should appeartoo trivial, I will here call ”the more familiar rodents.”
Was not Stephen Guest right in his decided opinion that this slimmaiden of eighteen was quite the sort of wife a man would not belikely to repent of marrying,--a woman who was loving and thoughtfulfor other women, not giving them Judas-kisses with eyes askance ontheir welcome defects, but with real care and vision for theirhalf-hidden pains and mortifications, with long ruminating enjoymentof little pleasures prepared for them? Perhaps the emphasis of hisadmiration did not fall precisely on this rarest quality in her;perhaps he approved his own choice of her chiefly because she did notstrike him as a remarkable rarity. A man likes his wife to be pretty;well, Lucy was pretty, but not to a maddening extent. A man likes hiswife to be accomplished, gentle, affectionate, and not stupid; andLucy had all these qualifications. Stephen was not surprised to findhimself in love with her, and was conscious of excellent judgment inpreferring her to Miss Leyburn, the daughter of the county member,although Lucy was only the daughter of his father's subordinatepartner; besides, he had had to defy and overcome a slightunwillingness and disappointment in his father and sisters,--acircumstance which gives a young man an agreeable consciousness of hisown dignity. Stephen was aware that he had sense and independenceenough to choose the wife who was likely to make him happy, unbiassedby any indirect considerations. He meant to choose Lucy; she was alittle darling, and exactly the sort of woman he had always admired.