Chapter: A Duet in Paradise


The well-furnished drawing-room, with the open grand piano, and the
pleasant outlook down a sloping garden to a boat-house by the side of
the Floss, is Mr. Deane's. The neat little lady in mourning, whose
light-brown ringlets are falling over the colored embroidery with
which her fingers are busy, is of course Lucy Deane; and the fine
young man who is leaning down from his chair to snap the scissors in
the extremely abbreviated face of the "King Charles" lying on the
young lady's feet is no other than Mr. Stephen Guest, whose diamond
ring, attar of roses, and air of _nonchalant_ leisure, at twelve
o'clock in the day, are the graceful and odoriferous result of the
largest oil-mill and the most extensive wharf in St. Ogg's. There is
an apparent triviality in the action with the scissors, but your
discernment perceives at once that there is a design in it which makes
it eminently worthy of a large-headed, long-limbed young man; for you
see that Lucy wants the scissors, and is compelled, reluctant as she
may be, to shake her ringlets back, raise her soft hazel eyes, smile
playfully down on the face that is so very nearly on a level with her
knee, and holding out her little shell-pink palm, to say,--

"My scissors, please, if you can renounce the great pleasure of
persecuting 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 them
off 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 from
tiny tips, which naturally dispose Mr. Stephen for a repetition _da
capo_. Accordingly, he watches for the release of the scissors, that
he may get them into his possession again.

"No, no," said Lucy, sticking them in her band, "you shall not have my
scissors again,--you have strained them already. Now don't set Minny
growling again. Sit up and behave properly, and then I will tell you
some news."

"What is that?" said Stephen, throwing himself back and hanging his
right arm over the corner of his chair. He might have been sitting for
his portrait, which would have represented a rather striking young man
of five-and-twenty, with a square forehead, short dark-brown hair,
standing erect, with a slight wave at the end, like a thick crop of
corn, and a half-ardent, half-sarcastic glance from under his
well-marked horizontal eyebrows. "Is it very important news?"

"Yes, very. Guess."

"You are going to change Minny's diet, and give him three ratafias
soaked in a dessert-spoonful of cream daily?"

"Quite wrong."

"Well, then, Dr. Kenn has been preaching against buckram, and you
ladies have all been sending him a roundrobin, saying, 'This is a hard
doctrine; who can bear it?'"

"For shame!" said Lucy, adjusting her little mouth gravely. "It is
rather dull of you not to guess my news, because it is about something
I mentioned to you not very long ago."

"But you have mentioned many things to me not long ago. Does your
feminine tyranny require that when you say the thing you mean is one
of 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 betrayed
you; he said so one day when you were not here."

"Oh, I know Phil is fierce on that point; he makes it quite a personal
matter. I think he must be love-sick for some unknown lady,--some
exalted Beatrice whom he met abroad."

"By the by," said Lucy, pausing in her work, "it has just occurred to
me that I never found out whether my cousin Maggie will object to see
Philip, as her brother does. Tom will not enter a room where Philip
is, if he knows it; perhaps Maggie may be the same, and then we
sha'n't be able to sing our glees, shall we?"

"What! is your cousin coming to stay with you?" said Stephen, with a
look of slight annoyance.

"Yes; that was my news, which you have forgotten. She's going to leave
her situation, where she has been nearly two years, poor thing,--ever
since her father's death; and she will stay with me a month or
two,--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_ am
pleased, but that, of course, is no reason why _you_ should be
pleased. There is no girl in the world I love so well as my cousin
Maggie."

"And you will be inseparable I suppose, when she comes. There will be
no possibility of a _tete-a-tete_ with you any more, unless you can
find an admirer for her, who will pair off with her occasionally. What
is the ground of dislike to Philip? He might have been a resource."

"It is a family quarrel with Philip's father. There were very painful
circumstances, I believe. I never quite understood them, or knew them
all. My uncle Tulliver was unfortunate and lost all his property, and
I think he considered Mr. Wakem was somehow the cause of it. Mr. Wakem
bought Dorlcote Mill, my uncle's old place, where he always lived. You
must remember my uncle Tulliver, don't you?"

"No," said Stephen, with rather supercilious indifference. "I've
always known the name, and I dare say I knew the man by sight, apart
from his name. I know half the names and faces in the neighborhood in
that detached, disjointed way."

"He was a very hot-tempered man. I remember, when I was a little girl
and used to go to see my cousins, he often frightened me by talking as
if he were angry. Papa told me there was a dreadful quarrel, the very
day before my uncle's death, between him and Mr. Wakem, but it was
hushed up. That was when you were in London. Papa says my uncle was
quite mistaken in many ways; his mind had become embittered. But Tom
and Maggie must naturally feel it very painful to be reminded of these
things. They have had so much, so very much trouble. Maggie was at
school with me six years ago, when she was fetched away because of her
father's misfortunes, and she has hardly had any pleasure since, I
think. She has been in a dreary situation in a school since uncle's
death, because she is determined to be independent, and not live with
aunt Pullet; and I could hardly wish her to come to me then, because
dear mamma was ill, and everything was so sad. That is why I want her
to come to me now, and have a long, long holiday."

"Very sweet and angelic of you," said Stephen, looking at her with an
admiring smile; "and all the more so if she has the conversational
qualities 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 any
stranger would,--and she was a great comfort to me in mamma's
illness."

"Yes, but in point of companionship one would prefer that she should
be represented by her brandy-cherries and cream-cakes. I think with a
shudder that her daughter will always be present in person, and have
no agreeable proxies of that kind,--a fat, blond girl, with round blue
eyes, 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 Philip
and tell him Maggie is coming to-morrow. He is quite aware of Tom's
feeling, and always keeps out of his way; so he will understand, if
you tell him, that I asked you to warn him not to come until I write
to ask him."

"I think you had better write a pretty note for me to take; Phil is so
sensitive, you know, the least thing might frighten him off coming at
all, and we had hard work to get him. I can never induce him to come
to the park; he doesn't like my sisters, I think. It is only your
faery 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 and
happy. She and Stephen were in that stage of courtship which makes the
most exquisite moment of youth, the freshest blossom-time of
passion,--when each is sure of the other's love, but no formal
declaration has been made, and all is mutual divination, exalting the
most trivial word, the lightest gesture, into thrills delicate and
delicious as wafted jasmine scent. The explicitness of an engagement
wears off this finest edge of susceptibility; it is jasmine gathered
and presented in a large bouquet.

"But it is really odd that you should have hit so exactly on Maggie's
appearance and manners," said the cunning Lucy, moving to reach her
desk, "because she might have been like her brother, you know; and Tom
has not round eyes; and he is as far as possible from staring at
people."

"Oh, I suppose he is like the father; he seems to be as proud as
Lucifer. Not a brilliant companion, though, I should think."

"I like Tom. He gave me my Minny when I lost Lolo; and papa is very
fond of him: he says Tom has excellent principles. It was through him
that 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 talking
about it a little while ago, after dinner, in one of their
interminable discussions about business. They think of doing something
for young Tulliver; he saved them from a considerable loss by riding
home in some marvellous way, like Turpin, to bring them news about the
stoppage of a bank, or something of that sort. But I was rather drowsy
at the time."

Stephen rose from his seat, and sauntered to the piano, humming in
falsetto, "Graceful Consort," as he turned over the volume of "The
Creation," 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 indifferent
voices are usually of that opinion."

"Philip burst into one of his invectives against 'The Creation' the
other day," said Lucy, seating herself at the piano. "He says it has a
sort of sugared complacency and flattering make-believe in it, as if
it 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 and
Eve unfallen, in Paradise. Now, then,--the recitative, for the sake of
the moral. You will sing the whole duty of woman,--'And from obedience
grows my pride and happiness.'"

"Oh no, I shall not respect an Adam who drags the _tempo_, as you
will," said Lucy, beginning to play the duet.

Surely the only courtship unshaken by doubts and fears must be that in
which the lovers can sing together. The sense of mutual fitness that
springs from the two deep notes fulfilling expectation just at the
right moment between the notes of the silvery soprano, from the
perfect accord of descending thirds and fifths, from the preconcerted
loving chase of a fugue, is likely enough to supersede any immediate
demand for less impassioned forms of agreement. The contralto will not
care to catechise the bass; the tenor will foresee no embarrassing
dearth of remark in evenings spent with the lovely soprano. In the
provinces, too, where music was so scarce in that remote time, how
could the musical people avoid falling in love with each other? Even
political principle must have been in danger of relaxation under such
circumstances; and the violin, faithful to rotten boroughs, must have
been tempted to fraternize in a demoralizing way with a reforming
violoncello. In that case, the linnet-throated soprano and the
full-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 the
duet. "You do the 'heavy beasts' to perfection."

"That sounds complimentary," said Stephen, looking at his watch. "By
Jove, it's nearly half-past one! Well, I can just sing this."

Stephen delivered with admirable ease the deep notes representing the
tread 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 as
soon as the music began, found this thunder so little to his taste
that he leaped out and scampered under the remotest _chiffonnier_, as
the most eligible place in which a small dog could await the crack of
doom.

"Adieu, 'graceful consort,'" said Stephen, buttoning his coat across
when he had done singing, and smiling down from his tall height, with
the air of rather a patronizing lover, at the little lady on the
music-stool. "My bliss is not incessant, for I must gallop home. I
promised to be there at lunch."

"You will not be able to call on Philip, then? It is of no
consequence; 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 will
dine with us; and poor aunty will have her two children together for
the first time. It will be very pretty; I think a great deal about
it."

"But I may come the next day?"

"Oh yes! Come and be introduced to my cousin Maggie; though you can
hardly 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, and
momentary meeting of the eyes, which will often leave a little lady
with a slight flush and smile on her face that do not subside
immediately when the door is closed, and with an inclination to walk
up and down the room rather than to seat herself quietly at her
embroidery, or other rational and improving occupation. At least this
was the effect on Lucy; and you will not, I hope, consider it an
indication of vanity predominating over more tender impulses, that she
just glanced in the chimney-glass as her walk brought her near it. The
desire to know that one has not looked an absolute fright during a few
hours of conversation may be construed as lying within the bounds of a
laudable benevolent consideration for others. And Lucy had so much of
this benevolence in her nature that I am inclined to think her small
egoisms were impregnated with it, just as there are people not
altogether unknown to you whose small benevolences have a predominant
and somewhat rank odor of egoism. Even now, that she is walking up and
down with a little triumphant flutter of her girlish heart at the
sense that she is loved by the person of chief consequence in her
small world, you may see in her hazel eyes an ever-present sunny
benignity, in which the momentary harmless flashes of personal vanity
are quite lost; and if she is happy in thinking of her lover, it is
because the thought of him mingles readily with all the gentle
affections and good-natured offices with which she fills her peaceful
days. Even now, her mind, with that instantaneous alternation which
makes two currents of feeling or imagination seem simultaneous, is
glancing continually from Stephen to the preparations she has only
half finished in Maggie's room. Cousin Maggie should be treated as
well as the grandest lady-visitor,--nay, better, for she should have
Lucy's best prints and drawings in her bedroom, and the very finest
bouquet 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 the
present of a cap of superlative quality, and to have her health drunk
in a gratifying manner, for which Lucy was going to lay a plot with
her father this evening. Clearly, she had not time to indulge in long
reveries about her own happy love-affairs. With this thought she
walked toward the door, but paused there.

"What's the matter, then, Minny?" she said, stooping in answer to some
whimpering of that small quadruped, and lifting his glossy head
against 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 own
hand when he was turned out in the paddock. She was fond of feeding
dependent creatures, and knew the private tastes of all the animals
about the house, delighting in the little rippling sounds of her
canaries when their beaks were busy with fresh seed, and in the small
nibbling pleasures of certain animals which, lest she should appear
too trivial, I will here call "the more familiar rodents."

Was not Stephen Guest right in his decided opinion that this slim
maiden of eighteen was quite the sort of wife a man would not be
likely to repent of marrying,--a woman who was loving and thoughtful
for other women, not giving them Judas-kisses with eyes askance on
their welcome defects, but with real care and vision for their
half-hidden pains and mortifications, with long ruminating enjoyment
of little pleasures prepared for them? Perhaps the emphasis of his
admiration did not fall precisely on this rarest quality in her;
perhaps he approved his own choice of her chiefly because she did not
strike 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 his
wife to be accomplished, gentle, affectionate, and not stupid; and
Lucy had all these qualifications. Stephen was not surprised to find
himself in love with her, and was conscious of excellent judgment in
preferring her to Miss Leyburn, the daughter of the county member,
although Lucy was only the daughter of his father's subordinate
partner; besides, he had had to defy and overcome a slight
unwillingness and disappointment in his father and sisters,--a
circumstance which gives a young man an agreeable consciousness of his
own dignity. Stephen was aware that he had sense and independence
enough to choose the wife who was likely to make him happy, unbiassed
by any indirect considerations. He meant to choose Lucy; she was a
little darling, and exactly the sort of woman he had always admired.

 Lucy Deane is being courted by Stephen Guest, son of the principal partner of Guest and Company. He is a handsome, apparently flippant young man. Lucy is telling him that she has important news. He guesses that it is about her dog's diet or Dr. Kenn "preaching against buckram"; but she informs him that her cousin Maggie is coming to stay with her. At the same time she worries aloud that Maggie will object to seeing Philip Wakem, who often comes to sing glees with Stephen and Lucy. Stephen is annoyed that Lucy is to have company, but he inquires about the ground of Maggie's dislike for Philip. Lucy tells him what little she knows of the old quarrel between Tulliver and Wakem. She says that Maggie has been "in a dreary situation in a school" since Mr. Tulliver's death. This is to be her first holiday. It will allow Maggie to be near her mother, who has been housekeeper for Lucy and Mr. Deane since the death of Mrs. Deane. Stephen expects that Maggie will be like her mother -- "a fat blonde girl, with round blue eyes, who will stare at us silently." Lucy says that that is Maggie exactly. Stephen goes to the piano and asks Lucy to sing with him. After several songs Stephen departs, leaving Lucy with "an inclination to walk up and down the room." She sees to the preparation of Maggie's room, and half forgets "her own happy love-affairs." Stephen Guest is of the opinion that this is the sort of woman to marry -- a woman thoughtful of other women, pretty but "not to a maddening extent," gentle and "not stupid." He must overcome a slight unwillingness in his father and sisters, but he means to do so.

