Mr. Jervis, Vol. 1 (of 3)

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.