CHAPTER XXVI.
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS--CLIQUE--THE LESSONS OF EXPERIENCE--OUTVISITING--HOUSE-PRIDE--DRESSMAKING.
Eleanor and I were not always at home. We generally went visitingsomewhere, at least once a year.
I think it was good for us. Great as were the advantages of the life Inow shared over an existence wasted in a petty round of ignoble gossipand social struggle, it had the drawback of being almost tooself-sufficing, perhaps--I am not certain--a little too laborious. I dothink, but for me, it must, at any rate, have become the latter. I am somuch less industrious, energetic, clever and good in every way thanEleanor, for one thing, that my very idleness holds us back; and I thinka taste for gaiety (I simply mean being gay, not balls and parties), andfor social pleasure, and for pretty things, and graceful "situations"runs in my veins with my French blood, and helps to break the current ofour labours.
We led lives of considerable intellectual activity, constant occupation,and engrossing interest. We were apt to "foy" at our work to the extentof grudging meal-times and sleep. Indeed, at one time a habit obtainedwith us of leaving the table in turn as we finished our respectivemeals. One member of the family after another would rise, bend his orher head for a silent "grace," and depart to the work in hand. I haveknown the table gradually deserted in this fashion till Mr. Arkwrightwas left alone. I remember going back one day into the room, and seeinghim so. My entrance partially aroused him from a brown study. (He was atall times very "absent") He rose, said grace aloud for the benefit ofthe company--which had dispersed--and withdrew to his library. But weabolished this uncivilized custom in conclave, and thenceforth sat ourmeals out to the end.
So free were we in our isolation upon those Yorkshire moors from thetrammels of conventionality (one might almost say, civilization!), thatI think we should have come to begrudge the ordinary interchange of theneighbourly courtesies of life, but for occasional lectures from Mrs.Arkwright, and for going out visiting from time to time.
It was not merely that a life of running in and out of other people'shouses, and chatting the same bits of news threadbare with oneacquaintance after another, as at Riflebury, would have been unendurableby us. The rare arrival of a visitor from some distant country-house tocall at the Vicarage was the signal for every one, who could do so withdecency, to escape from the unwelcome interruption. But as we grewolder, Mrs. Arkwright would not allow this. The boys, indeed, were hardto coerce; they "bolted" still when the door-bell rang; but domesticauthority, which is apt to be magnified on "the girls," overruledEleanor and me for our good, and her mother--who reasoned with us farmore than she commanded--convinced us of how much selfishness there wasin this, as in all acts of discourtesy.
But what do we not owe to her good counsels? In how many evening talkshas she not warned us of the follies, affectations, or troubles to whichour lives might specially be liable! Against despising interests thatare not our own, or graces which we have chosen to neglect, against thedanger of satire, against the love or the fear of being thoughtsingular, and, above all, against the petty pride of clique.
"I do not know which is the worst," I remember her saying, "a religiousclique, an intellectual clique, a fashionable clique, a moneyed clique,or a family clique. And I have seen them all."
"Come, Mother," said Eleanor, "you cannot persuade us you would not havemore sympathy with the intellectual than the moneyed clique, forinstance?"
"I should have warmly declared so myself, at one time," said Mrs.Arkwright, "but I have a vivid remembrance of a man belonging to anartistic clique, to whose house I once went with some friends. Myfriends were artists also, but their minds were enlarged, instead ofbeing narrowed, by one chief pursuit. Their special art gave themsympathy with all others, as the high cultivation of one virtue is saidto bring all the rest in its train. But this man talked the shibbolethof his craft over one's head to other members of his clique with adefiance of good manners arising more from conceit than from ignoranceof the ways of society; and with a transparent intention of beingoverheard and admired which reminded me of the little self-consciousconceits of children before visitors. He was one of a large family withthe same peculiarities, joined to a devout admiration of each other.Indeed, they combined the artistic clique and the family clique in equalproportions. From the conversation at their table you would haveimagined that there was but one standard of good for poor humanity, thatof one 'school' of one art, and absolutely no one who quite came up toit but the brothers, sisters, parents, cousins, or connections bymarriage of your host. Now, I honestly assure you that the only otherman really like this one that I ever met, was what is called a'self-made' man in a commercial clique. Money was _his_ standard, andhe seemed to be as completely unembarrassed as my artist friend by theweight of any other ideas than his own, or by any feeling short of uttersatisfaction with himself. Their contempt for the conventionalities ofsociety was about equal. My artist friend had passed a sweepingcriticism for my benefit now and then (there could be no conversationwhere no second opinion was allowed), and it was with perhaps a shadeless of condescension--a shade more of friendliness--that my commercialfriend once stopped some remarks of mine with the knowing observation,'Look here, ma'am. Whenever I hear this, that, and the other braggedabout a party, what I always say is this, I don't want you to tell mewhat he _his_, but what he _'as_.'"
Eleanor and I laughed merrily at the anecdote, even if we were not quiteconverted to Mrs. Arkwright's views. And I must in justice add thatevery visit which has taken us from home--every fresh experience whichhas enlarged our knowledge of the world--has confirmed the truth of hersage and practical advice.
If at home we have still inclined to feel it almost a duty to be proudof intellectual tastes, quite a duty to be proud of orthodox opinions,and, at the worst, a very amiable weakness indeed to think that thereare no boys like our boys, a wholesome experience of having otherpeople's tastes and views crammed down our throats has modified ourideas in this respect. A strong dose of eulogistic biography of thebrothers of a gushing acquaintance made the names of Clem and Jacksacred to our domestic circle for ever; and what I have endured from amangy, over-fed, ill-tempered Skye-terrier, who is the idol of a lady ofour acquaintance, has led me sometimes to wonder if visitors at theVicarage are ever oppressed by the dear boys.
I'm afraid it is possible--poor dear things!
I have positively heard people say that Saucebox is ugly, though he haseyes like a bull-frog, and his tongue hangs quite six inches out of hismouth, and--in warm weather or before meals--further still! However, Ikeep him in very good order, and never allow him to be troublesome topeople who do not appreciate him. For I have observed that there arepeople who (having no children of their own) hold very just and severeviews about spoiled boys and girls, but who (having dogs of their own)are much less clear-sighted on the subject of spoiled terriers andPomeranians. And I do not want to be like that--dear as the dear boysare!
Certainly, seeing all sorts of people with all sorts of peculiarities isoften a great help towards trying to get rid of one's own objectionableones. But like the sketching, one sometimes gets into despair about it,and though the process of learning an art may be even pleasanter than tofeel one's self a master in it, one cannot say as much for the processof discovering one's follies. I should like to get rid of _them_ in alump.
Eleanor said so one day to her mother, but Mrs. Arkwright said: "We mayhate ourselves, as you call it, when we come to realize failings we havenot recognized before, and feel that there are probably others which wedo not yet see as clearly as other people see them, but this kind ofimpatience for our perfection is not felt by those who love us, I amsure. It is one's greatest comfort to believe that it is not even feltby GOD. Just as a mother would not love her child the better for itsbeing turned into a model of perfection by one stroke of magic, but doeslove it the more dearly every time it tries to be good, so I do hope andbelieve our Great Father does not wait for us to be good and wise tolove us, but loves us, and loves to hel
p us in the very thick of ourstruggles with folly and sin."
But I am becoming as discursive as ever! What I want to put down isabout our going out visiting. There is really nothing much to say aboutour life at home. It was very happy, but there were no great events init, and Eleanor says it will not do for us to "go off at a tangent,"and describe what happened to the boys at school and college; first,because these biographies are merely to be lives of our own selves, fornobody but us two to read when we are both old maids; and secondly,because if we put down everything we had anything to do with in theseten years, it will be so very long before our biographies are finished.We are very anxious to see them done, partly because we are gettingrather tired of them, and Jack is becoming suspicious, and partlybecause we have got an amateur bookbinding press, and we want to bindthem.
Well, as I said, we paid visits to relatives of mine, and to old friendsof the Arkwrights. My friends invited Eleanor, and Eleanor's friendsinvited me. People are very kind; and it was understood that we werehappier together.
I was fortunate enough to find myself possessed of some charming cousinsliving in a cathedral town; and at their house it was a great pleasureto us to visit. The cathedral services gave us great delight; when Ithink of the expression of Eleanor's face, I may almost say rapture.Then there was a certain church-bookseller's shop in the town, which hadmanifold attractions for us. Every parochial want that print and papercould supply was there met, with a convenience that bordered on luxury.There was a good store, too, of sacred prints, illuminated texts, andoak frames, from which we carried back sundry additions to thegarnishing of our room, besides presents for Jack, who was as fond ofsuch things as we were. Parish matters were, naturally, of perennialinterest for us in our Vicarage home; but if ever they became a fad, itwas about this period.
But it was to a completely new art that this visit finally led us, whichI hardly know how to describe, unless as the art of dressmaking andgeneral ornamentation.
The neighbourhood abounded with pretty clerical and country homes, wheremy cousins were intimate; each one, so it seemed to Eleanor and me,prettier than the last: sunshiny and homelike, with irregularcomfortable furniture, dainty with chintz, or dark with aged oak, eachroom more tastefully besprinkled than the rest with old china, newbooks, music, sketches, needlework, and flowers.
"Do you know, Eleanor," said I, when we were dressing for dinner oneevening before a toilette-table that had been tastefully adorned for ouruse by the daughters of the house, "I wonder if Yorkshire women _are_ as'house-proud' as they call themselves? I think our villagers are, in theimportant points of cleanliness and solid comfort, and of course we areat the Vicarage as to _that_--Keziah keeps us all like copper kettles;but don't you think we might have a little more house-pride abouttasteful pretty refinements? It perhaps is rather a waste of timearranging all these vases and baskets of flowers every day, but they are_very_ nice to look at, and I think it civilizes one."
"_You're_ not to blame," said Eleanor decisively. "You're south-countryto the backbone, and French on the top. It is we hard north-countryfolk, we business people, who neglect to cultivate 'the beautiful.'We're quite wrong. But I think the beautiful is revenged on us," addedshe with one of her quick, bright looks, "by withdrawing itself. There'snothing comparable for ugliness to the people of a manufacturing town."
My mind was running on certain very ingenious and tasteful methods ofhanging nosegays on the wall.
"Those baskets with ferns and flowers in, against the wall, were lovely,weren't they?" said I. "Do you think we shall ever be able to think ofsuch pretty things?"
"We're not fools," said Eleanor briefly. "We shall do it when we set ourminds to it. Meantime, we must make notes of whatever strikes us."
"There are plenty of jolly, old-fashioned flowers in the garden athome," said I. It was a polite way of expressing my inward regret thatwe had no tropical orchids or strange stove-plants. And Eleanor dancedround me, and improvised a song beginning:
"There are ferns by Ewden's waters, And heather on the hill."
From the better adornment of the Vicarage to the better adornment ofourselves was a short stride. Most of the young ladies in these countryhomes were very prettily dressed. Not _a la_ Mrs. Perowne. Not in thatmilliner's handbook style dear to "Promenades" and places of publicresort; but more daintily, and with more attention to the prettiest andmost convenient of the prevailing fashions than Eleanor's and mycostumes displayed.
The toilettes of one young lady in particular won our admiration; andwhen we learned that her pretty things were made by herself, anoverwhelming ambition seized upon us to learn to do the same.
"Women ought to know about all house matters," said Eleanor, puckeringher brow to a gloomy extent. "Dressmaking, cookery, and all that sort ofthing; and we know nothing about any of them. I was thinking only lastnight, in bed, that if I were cast away on a desert island, and had tomake a dress out of an old sail, I shouldn't have the ghost of an ideawhere to begin."
"I should," said I. "I should sew it up like a sack, make three holesfor my head and arms, and tie it round my waist with ship's rope. Icould manage Robinson Crusoe dresses; it's the civilized ones that willbe too much for me, I'm afraid."
"I believe the sail would go twice as far if we could gore it," saidEleanor, laughing. "But there's no waste like the wastefulness ofignorance; and oh, Margery, it's the _gores_ I'm afraid of! If skirtswere only made the old-fashioned way, like a flannel petticoat! So manypieces all alike--run them together--hem the bottom--gather the top--andthere you are, with everything straightforward but the pocket."
To our surprise we found that our new fad was a sore subject with Mrs.Arkwright. She reproached herself bitterly with having given Eleanor solittle training in domestic arts. But she had been brought up by alearned uncle, who considered needlework a waste of time, and she knewas little about gores as we did. She had also, unfortunately, known orheard of some excellent mother who had trained nine daughters to suchperfection of domestic capabilities that it was boasted that they couldnever in after-life employ a workwoman or domestic who would know moreof her business than her employer. And this good lady was a standingtrouble to poor Mrs. Arkwright's conscience.
Her self-reproaches were needless. General training is perhaps quite asgood as (if not better than) special, even for special ends. In givingus a higher education, in teaching us to use our eyes, our wits, and ourcommon-sense, she had put all meaner arts within our grasp when needshould urge, and opportunity serve.
"Aunt Theresa was always dressmaking," I said to Eleanor; "but I don'tremember anything that would help us. I was so young, you know. And whenone is young one is so stupid, one really resists information."
I was to have another chance, however, of gleaning hints from AuntTheresa.