THE THREE YOUNG MAIDS OF HOYLE.
It was true that Mrs. Gordon and her daughters resided in a dull,
out-of-the-way part of the world; but they could not help themselves.
They lived at Hoyle, in the first instance, because it was cheap; and,
in the second place, because living at Hoyle had now become second
nature to Mrs. Gordon, and nothing short of a fire or an earthquake
could remove her.
Hoyle is in the south of England, within a stone’s throw of a shingly
beach, and commands a full view of the white shores of France. It is an
old-fashioned hamlet, at least fifty years behind the age, where the
curfew is still sounded, the sight of a telegraph envelope is only
interpreted as a messenger of death, and is cut off from the bustling
outer world by the great expanse of Romney Marsh. In deference to this
_fin de siècle_ age, a single line of rail crawls across the seaside
desert, and once or twice a day a sleepy train stops just one mile
short of the village. The village of Hoyle was once a chartered town,
and was built many centuries before trains were invented. It was even
out of the track of the lively stage-coaches, and owed its wealth and
rise--and fall--entirely to its convenient proximity to the sea, its
seclusion, its charming view of the opposite coast. Yes, its solid
prosperity--low be it spoken--was due to smuggling. The High Street
is lined by picturesque red-brick houses, which are occupied by the
descendants of--shall we say sailors?--a well-to-do primitive, most
respectable community, though from yonder upper window the present
tenant’s grandfather shot a preventive officer stone dead; and in the
chimney of the next cottage (a most innocent-looking abode) three
men who were in trouble lay concealed for a whole week. The capacious
cellars of the Cause is Altered inn, were, within living memory, no
strangers to bales of silk and casks of brandy.
Between the village and the inn there stands a solid old red house,
with a small enclosed garden in front, and a paved footpath leading
to its mean little green hall-door. The windows are narrow, the rooms
irregular, and the ceilings absurdly low--but so is the rent. It suits
its tenants admirably; it is warm, roomy, and cheap; it boasts of a
fine walled garden at the rear, of acres of cellarage, and is known by
the name of Merry Meetings. This jovial designation is not of modern
date, but points back to the grand old days when it was the residence
of the chief man in Hoyle; when it was club, bank, receiving-house,
and fortress. Many were the carousals that took place in Mrs. Gordon’s
decent panelled parlour. To what grim tales and strange oaths have
its walls given ear! There have been merry meetings, of a much tamer
description in the present time, when the maidens of the neighbourhood
have gathered round the table, and chatted and laughed over cups of
honest tea, brewed in Mrs. Gordon’s thin old silver teapot. Pretty
girls have discussed dress, tennis, and weddings, where formerly
weather-beaten, bearded men assembled to celebrate the safe arrival
of a newly-run cargo, and to appraise filmy laces, foreign silks, and
cigars, and to quaff prime cognac and strange but potent waters.
The widow and her daughters have occupied Merry Meetings for fifteen
years, ever since the death of Colonel Gordon. He had retired from
the service and settled down near a garrison town, intending to turn
his sword into a ploughshare; but in an evil moment he ventured his
all in a tempting speculation, hoping thereby to double his income;
but instead of which, alas! water came into the Wheal Rebecca, and
swept away every penny. Seeing nothing between him and the poor-house
but a small pension, Colonel Gordon was not brave enough to face the
situation, and died of a broken heart--though it was called a rapid
decline--leaving his widow and three little girls to struggle with the
future as best they could.
Colonel Gordon’s connections were so furious with him for losing
his money, that they sternly refused to assist his widow; therefore
she meekly collected the remains of the domestic wreck, and retired
to Hoyle with her children and an old servant, who had strongly
recommended her native place, where her “mistress could live in peace
and quiet until she had time to turn herself round and make plans.”
Mrs. Gordon took Merry Meeting, which was partly furnished, for three
months, and had remained there for fifteen years. Her plans were still
undeveloped; she constantly talked of moving, but never got beyond that
point. Occasionally she would say, “Well, girls, I really will give
notice this term. We must move; we must decide something. I will write
to a house agent. And, Honor, you need not mind getting the garden
seeds, or having the kitchen whitewashed.” But when to-morrow came
these plans had melted into air, and the garden-seeds were set, and the
kitchen renovated, as usual.
Mrs. Gordon was something of an invalid, and became more lethargic
year by year, and a prey to an incurable habit of procrastination. She
resigned her keys, purse, and authority into the hands of her eldest
daughter, and contented herself with taking a placid interest in the
garden, the weather, the daily paper, and sampling various new patent
medicines. She still retained the remains of remarkable personal beauty
and a fascination of manner that charmed all who came in contact with
her, from the butcher’s boy to the lord of the soil. People said that
it was shamefully unfair to her girls, the way in which Mrs. Gordon
buried herself--and them--alive. She never made the smallest effort
to better their lot, but contented herself with sitting all day in a
comfortable easy-chair, making gracious remarks and looking handsome,
stately, and languid.
Life was monotonous at Merry Meetings. Two or three tennis-parties in
summer, two or three carpet-dances in winter, now and then a day’s
shopping in Hastings, were events which were varied by long gray
stretches of uneventful calm. The daily paper was a most welcome
arrival; and the Miss Gordons entertained as eager an expectation
of letters, of stirring news, of “something coming by the post,” of
“something happening,” as if they lived in the midst of a large and
busy community.
And what of the three Miss Gordons?
Jessie, the eldest, is twenty-six, and quite surprisingly plain. She
has pale eyes and a dark complexion, instead of dark eyes and a pale
complexion, also a nose that would scarcely be out of place in a
burlesque. She is clever, strong-willed, and practical, and manages
the whole family with admirable tact, including Susan, the domestic
treasure.
Jessie Gordon’s name is well known as the author of pretty stories
in girls’ and children’s magazines. She earns upwards of a hundred a
year by her pen (which she generally adds to the common purse), and is
regarded by her neighbours with a certain amount of pride, slightly
tempered with uneasiness. Supposing she were to put some of her friends
into a book! However, they criticize her work sharply to her face, make
a great virtue of purchasing the magazines in which her tales appear,
and magnify her merits, fame, and earnings to all outsiders.
Fairy, whose real name is Flora, comes next to Jessie in age; she is
about two and twenty, and has a perfectly beautiful face--a face to
inspire poets and painters, faultless in outline, and illumined by
a pair of pathetic blue eyes. A most delicate complexion--of which
every care, reasonable or unreasonable, is taken--and quantities of
fine sunny brown hair, combine to complete a vision of loveliness. Yes,
Fairy Gordon is almost startlingly fair to see; and seen seated at a
garden-party or in a ball-room, all the strange men present instantly
clamour for an introduction; and when it has been effected, and the
marvellously pretty girl rises to dance, behold she is a dwarf--a
poor little creature, with a shrill, harsh voice, and only four feet
four inches in height! Her figure is deceptive--the body very long in
proportion to the limbs.
Many and many a shock has Fairy administered to a would-be partner. Did
she ever read their consternation in their faces? Apparently never;
for no matter who remained at home, Fairy could not endure to miss an
entertainment, even a school feast or a children’s party. It was an
unwritten family law that Fairy must always come first, must always
be shielded, petted, indulged, amused, and no one subscribed to this
rule more readily than the second Miss Gordon herself. She was keenly
alive to her own beauty, and talked frankly to her intimates of her
charms; but she never once referred to her short stature, and her
sisters but rarely alluded to the fact between themselves, and then
with bated breath. Even six inches would have made all the difference
in the world; but four feet four was--well, remarkable. Of course
the neighbours were accustomed to Fairy--a too suggestive name. They
remembered her quite a little thing, a lovely spoilt child, a child
who had never grown up. She was still a little thing, and yet she was
a woman--a woman with a sharp tongue and a despotic temper. Fairy
had true fairy-like fingers. She embroidered exquisitely, and made
considerable sums doing church needlework, which sums were exclusively
devoted to the decoration of her own little person. She was also a
capital milliner and amateur dressmaker; but she had no taste for
music, literature, housekeeping, or for any of the “daily rounds, the
common tasks.” She left all those sort of things to her sisters.
Honor, the youngest Miss Gordon, is twenty years of age, slight,
graceful, and tall--perhaps too tall. She might have spared some
inches to her small relative, for she measures fairly five feet eight
inches. She has an oval face, dark grey eyes, dark hair, and a radiant
smile. In a family less distinguished by beauty she would have been
noteworthy. As it is, some people maintain that in spite of Fairy’s
marvellous colouring and faultless features, they see more to admire
in her younger sister--for she has the beauty of expression. Honor is
the useful member of the family. Jessie could not arrange flowers, cut
out a dress, or make a cake, to save her life. Honor can do all these.
She has a sort of quick, magic touch. Everything she undertakes looks
neat and dainty, from a hat to an apple-pie. Her inexhaustible spirits
correspond with her gay, dancing eyes, and she is the life and prop
of the whole establishment. She plays the violin in quite a remarkable
manner. Not that she has great execution, or can master difficult
pieces, but to her audience she and her violin seem one, and there is a
charm about her playing that listeners can neither explain nor resist.
The youngest Miss Gordon has her faults. Chief of these, is an
undesirable bluntness and impudent recklessness of speech--a deplorable
fashion of introducing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth, no matter how unwelcome or how naked--and a queer, half-absent,
and wholly disconcerting way of thinking aloud.
Her friends (who are many) declare that she is young, and will grow out
of these peculiarities, and at any rate she is by far the most popular
of the three sisters!
One gusty March morning, the sea displayed towering grey waves, with
cream-coloured crests, the rain beat noisily against the window in
which Jessie Gordon stood waiting for the kettle to boil, and watching
for the postman. Here he came at last, striding up the paved path in
his shining oilskins, and with a thundering bang, bang! he is gone.
“The paper, a coal bill, and an Indian letter,” said Jessie to Fairy,
who, wrapped in a shawl, was cowering over the fire. “I’ll take them
upstairs whilst you watch the kettle.”
Mrs. Gordon always breakfasted in bed, to “save trouble,” she declared,
but to whom she omitted to mention. She turned the letters over
languidly, and exclaimed--
“One from India from Sara Brande. Wonders will never cease! What can
she want? Well, let me have my tea at once, and when I have read her
epistle, I will send it down to you. And, here--you can take the paper
to Fairy.”
Jessie returned to her tea-making--she and Honor took the housekeeping
week about. In the middle of breakfast, Susan stalked into the
room--an unusual occurrence--and said--
“Miss Jessie, the mistress is after pulling down the bell-rope. I
thought the house was on fire. You are to go upstairs to her this
minute.”
Jessie was absent about a quarter of an hour, and when she appeared,
beaming, and with a letter in her hand, she had such an air of
suppressed exultation, that it was evident to her sisters, even before
she opened her lips, that the long-expected “something” had happened at
last.