‘Any way,’ said Mary Hebden, ‘if that German had not got lost, and my uncle had not gone to look, there would not be a party.’
‘But if your uncle did not find the German,’ said the doubting Mary Cox.
‘It was still a brave thing to do,’ Mary Hebden replied.
‘My father says,’ said Mary Hayley, ‘the German was eaten by blacks, and a good thing, too, if he was going to find land for a lot of other Germans.’
‘Listen, Mary,’ said Mary Cox, ‘could you make us a parcel with some little cakes and things? If you are really going.’
‘That would be stealing,’ Mary Hebden replied.
‘But you can steal from your cousin,’ said Mary Hayley. ‘Just a few cakes. And us living on boiled mutton.’
‘I will see, then.’
‘How will you go?’ asked Mary Cox.
‘In a hired carriage, with Miss Trevelyan.’
‘Oooohhh!’ moaned those who were less fortunate.
‘You awful thing!’ cried Mary Cox.
‘I will tell you something,’ said Mary Hayley.
‘What?’
‘Miss Trevelyan let me brush her hair.’
‘I do not believe it. When?’
‘The night I was so bilious, because I was nervous, because Mamma had left for Home.’
‘It was the treacle toffee that Maud Sinclair made.’
‘Any way,’ continued Mary Hayley, ‘Miss Trevelyan took me into her room, and let me brush her hair. It was so lovely. It was all cut off once, but grew again, thicker than before.’
‘I heard my aunts talking, and there is something funny about Miss Trevelyan.’
‘Oh, that! It is all nonsense. I thought: if only I could snip a little bit of hair. Her back was turned, of course. But I did not have the courage.’
‘Look, there she is!’ Mary Hebden pointed.
‘Where?’
They were turning and burning in the secret laurels. Then they shook out their week-day pinafores, and raced.
‘I will beat you,’ Mary Hayley squealed.
‘Gels!’ called the elder Miss Linsley, who was chafing her cold hands upon the hot veranda. ‘It is never too early to practise self-control.’
Older girls, or more practised young ladies, were walking and talking, and frowning at the dust that the three Marys had kicked up. Anything more graceful than the older girls could only have broken; the laws of nature would have seen to it. Their porcelain necks were perfect, and their long, cool hands always smelled of soap. Deftly they carried large, clean books in the crooks of their arms, against their brittle waists, albums of pieces for piano and harp, histories of England, botanies, sheaves of porous drawing-paper. On Friday evenings they studied deportment.
‘Who will control Mary Hayley?’ Lizzie Ebsworth frowned.
‘I was under the impression,’ Nelly Hookham began, lowering her voice on account of the seriousness of what she was about to communicate, ‘I was always under the impression that the Hayleys were Roman Catholics.’
And she looked over her shoulder.
‘Oh, dear, no,’ said Maud Sinclair, who was plain and kind. ‘My aunts know them. The Hayleys are all right.’
‘This one, of course, is encouraged by Miss Trevelyan,’ said Nelly Hookham.
‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘There she is.’
The three girls stood watching, their necks turned beautifully.
‘Poor thing,’ said Maud Sinclair.
‘Why?’
‘Well, you know,’ said Nelly Hookham.
‘But do we know?’ asked Lizzie Ebsworth.
‘She has had a hard time,’ Maud Sinclair said.
‘She is horrid,’ said Lizzie. ‘She is sarcastic in mathematics.’
‘She is certainly rather peculiar,’ sighed Nelly.
‘She is a dear, really,’ said Maud.
‘I would not dare speak to her about anything of interest,’ said Nelly. ‘I would be terrified, in fact, to speak to her about anything that was not strictly necessary.’
‘Certainly she is sometimes severe,’ Maud allowed. ‘But, poor thing, I expect it is because she is disappointed.’
Lizzie Ebsworth was embarrassed. She laughed.
‘How old do you suppose she is?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘At least.’
Silence fell.
‘Do you know,’ said Lizzie, ‘I have received a letter from Mary Hebden’s eldest brother, whom I met at the Pringles’ last winter.’
‘Oh, Lizzie, you did not tell us!’
‘What colour is he?’
Lizzie was carefully breaking a twig.
‘I do not think one would say he is any particular colour,’ she replied, after some consideration.
‘I like reddish men,’ Nelly Hookham confessed too quickly, and blushed.
‘Oh, no.’
‘Well, I mean, not so much red,’ she protested, ‘as a kind of warm chestnut.’
She blushed even deeper.
‘I know what Nelly means,’ Maud said, thoughtfully. ‘I can think of several reddish men. Poor Ralph Angus, for instance.’
‘He was my cousin,’ said Nelly, and rearranged her books.
The others were sympathetically shocked.
‘So tragic,’ said Lizzie, who was used to accompany her mother on morning calls. ‘And such a valuable property.’
‘My father is of the opinion that they have discovered a paradise somewhere in the middle of the Continent, and cannot bear to return. But that is only a theory, of course,’ said Maud.
‘I do not think that Ralph would be so lacking in human instincts,’ Nelly blurted.
‘But the German.’
The leaves of the laurels were shaking and quaking. Then the bushes erupted, and a little girl staggered out, dressed in a serviceable stuff, of the same colour as the foliage. It was not what one would have chosen for a child.
‘Why, it is Mercy,’ they said.
Maud put down her books, and prepared to eat her up.
Mercy screamed.
‘Have you no kisses for me?’ Maud asked.
‘No,’ Mercy screamed.
‘Then what will you give me?’
‘Nothing.’ Mercy laughed.
‘If you are so unkind, I shall take this,’ Maud teased, touching a marble that the little girl was carrying. This also was green.
‘No.’
She would guard what she had.
‘At least you must talk to us nicely,’ Nelly coaxed the silence.
‘Who is your mamma?’ Lizzie asked.
The big girls waited. It was their favourite game.
‘Laura.’
‘Laura? Who is Laura?’
‘Miss Trevelyan.’
‘Miss?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Oh, Lizzie!’ Maud cried.
Mercy laughed.
‘And your father?’ asked Nelly.
‘I have no father,’ said Mercy.
‘Oh, dear!’
The big girls were giggling. Their white necks were strewn with the strawberries of their pleasure and shame.
‘What is this?’ Maud asked.
‘That is a marble that my granny gave me.’
It was, in fact, a marble from Mrs Bonner’s solitaire board.
‘You have a granny, then,’ said Maud.
‘She is almost fully equipped, you see,’ Lizzie giggled.
It was killing. If they had not loved the little girl, it would have been different, of course. Any further expression of their love was prevented, however, by Miss Trevelyan herself, who had begun to shake the hand-bell.
Then the big girls gathered their spotless books, touched their sleek hair, looked down their immaculate fronts, and resumed their rehearsal for life in the walk towards the house. How important their hips were, and their long necks, and their rather pale wrists.
Miss Trevelyan returned the bell to the place where it always stood.
At the Misses Linsle
ys’ Academy for Young Ladies, at which she had been employed as a resident mistress for almost two years, Miss Trevelyan was held in universal respect. If she was too diffident to distribute her affections prodigally, especially amongst the cold and proud, those affections did exist, and were constantly being discovered by some blundering innocent. So she was loved in certain quarters. When she was disliked, it was almost always by those to whom justice appeared unjust, and there were the ones, besides, who feared and hated whatever they did not understand.
Nobody misunderstood Laura Trevelyan better than Mrs Bonner, and her niece’s decision to accept employment as a school mistress, after her miraculous recovery from that strange illness, might have caused the aunt endless concern, even bitter resentment, if she had thought more deeply about it, but Mrs Bonner was most fortunate in that she was able to banish thought almost completely from her head.
Upon Laura’s first announcing her decision, it must be admitted she sustained a shock.
‘People will laugh at us,’ she declared.
There is no more grievous prospect for persons of distinction; but upon investigating the nature of the Misses Linsleys’ venture, and discovering that its aim was to provide for a mere handful of girls, of the best landed class, the refinements of a home in a scholastic atmosphere, Mrs Bonner’s resistance virtually collapsed, and if she continued to grumble, it was only on principle.
‘It is the kind of step a distressed gentlewoman is forced into taking,’ she felt compelled to say, ‘or some poor immigrant girl without connexions in the Colony.’
‘It is surprising to me,’ said the merchant, starting on a high note, because sometimes in conversation with his niece the breath would begin to flutter in his chest, ‘it is surprising that you have never contemplated matrimony, Laura. There is many a young fellow in the country would jump at the opportunity of union with such a respectable firm.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ said Laura, ‘but I would not care to be the reason for anybody’s marrying a store.’
‘It would be in the nature of a double investment,’ the uncle answered gallantly.
‘Mr Bonner,’ protested his wife, ‘I am prepared to believe bluntness a virtue in business, but in the family circle it is not nice.’
Laura laughed, and said:
‘If its motive is kindness, then it is indeed a virtue. My dear, good Uncle, I shall remember that virtue whenever I am entangled in arithmetic with a dozen inky little girls.’
‘Arithmetic!’ Mrs Bonner exclaimed. ‘Although I was born with a head for figures, I always hold that no lady can honestly profess mathematics. It is a man’s subject, and Miss Linsley would do well to call in some gentlemanly man. A thorough grounding is all-important in arithmetic.’
‘It is one of the subjects Miss Linsley informs me I shall be expected to teach,’ Laura said, and added: ‘Why should I not exercise my wits? They are all I brought into the country when I came here a poor immigrant. Yes, Uncle, your kindness apart, that is all I was. And now it is my hope to give the country something in return.’
‘My dear,’ Mrs Bonner laughed, and she was still a pretty girl, ‘you were always so earnest.’
‘The country,’ Mr Bonner began, ‘I am always the first to do my duty by the country.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Bonner, ‘we are all a sacrifice to that, what with the servant question, and the climate, which is so ruinous to anyone’s complexion.’
‘I am inclined to be sallow,’ Laura admitted, and stood up.
‘And what of your duty to your family?’ Mr Bonner asked.
‘I was never yours,’ Laura told the unhappy truth, ‘except at moments, and by accident.’
‘I do sometimes wonder what is not by moments and accident,’ Mrs Bonner said, and sighed.
‘Oh, let us not talk of matters that are beyond our powers of control,’ Laura begged, and went out into the garden.
There her sensibilities were whipped by such a gritty wind that they became partly numbed.
Yet, there were many smiling days, including that on which she left her uncle’s house, with a few books, and such clothes as were suitable and necessary, packed in two trunks. If her possessions were meagre, so she had chosen.
‘Like some foolish nun,’ were Mrs Bonner’s last words.
But Laura was, and continued, content. The vows were rigorous that she imposed upon herself, to the exclusion of all personal life, certainly of introspection, however great her longing for those delights of hell. The gaunt man, her husband, would not tempt her in. If he still possessed her in her sleep, those who were most refreshed by the fruits of that passion were, with herself, unconscious of the source.
Miss Linsley did once stir, and remark to her younger sister, Hester:
‘I am sensible of the enthusiasm this young woman has breathed into the life of the school, and grateful for the devotion which inspires her efforts, but do you consider it desirable that she should single out individual girls and read poetry with them in her bedroom?’
‘I do not know, Alice,’ said Miss Hester, who was dependent on her sister for opinions and initiative. ‘Which poets do you suppose they read?’
‘I must ask,’ said Miss Linsley.
But she did not.
Dedicated to culture, this immortelle recoiled from poetry, almost as if it had been contrived as part of an elaborate practical joke, and might shoot out without warning, to smack her in the middle of her withered soul. She was happier with established prose, but since the arts had to be practised, if only to increase the mystery of woman in the minds of dreadful colonial males, her preference was for the study of music, discreeter than the spoken word, sketching and water-colour, if confined to flowers, fruit, or a pretty landscape, and that hardy stand-by, leatherwork, for which an elderly gentleman’s services were obtained.
Such were her standards and ideals, in spite of which her girls, or young ladies of the best landed class, had begun to breathe poetry. They were even writing it, under the vines, on fragrant scraps of paper, and inside the covers of books.
Once when Miss Linsley had called Miss Trevelyan into her study, as was her frequent habit, to ask for anything but advice, she did just happen to remark:
‘Miss Trevelyan, Maud Sinclair must be reminded not to leave her belongings in the hall. Here is her Botany, for instance, with verses written on the fly-leaf. Original verses, I take them to be.’
Miss Trevelyan read.
‘A love poem,’ was her grave judgement.
‘Do you not find it disturbing that young girls should be writing love poems on the fly-leaves of their lesson books?’
‘It is usual at that age,’ Miss Trevelyan said. ‘Particularly amongst girls who read. They are in love with what others have experienced. Until the same experience is theirs, the best they can do is write a poem. Did you never compose an indifferent love poem at Maud Sinclair’s age?’
‘I most certainly do not remember,’ Miss Linsley replied.
From yellow she was becoming pink. Her annoyance teetered on the verge of giggles, as she rode her disapproval with determination.
‘But do you not consider it a most unhealthy state of affairs?’
‘I would call it a fortunate indisposition,’ Miss Trevelyan suggested. ‘Probably poor Maud will suffer from excellent health for the rest of her life.’
Miss Trevelyan was really rather queer but, secretly, Miss Linsley was longing to admire.
So, briskly, she changed the subject.
‘I have received a letter,’ which she produced as evidence, ‘from a Mrs de Courcy, who is known to your aunt, it appears. It is an invitation to little Mary Hebden for Thursday week. As you know, I do not approve of parties during term, but as this is a particular occasion, in honour of Mary’s uncle, Colonel Hebden, who has returned from an expedition into the bush, I propose to accept.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Trevelyan. ‘Yes.’
‘Now, it is suggested that you should accompany Ma
ry,’ Miss Linsley continued.
‘I?’
‘Colonel Hebden has expressed a wish to make your acquaintance, as a friend of Mr Voss, the lost explorer, for whom he has been searching.’
‘I?’ repeated Miss Trevelyan. ‘But I fail to see how I can be of use or interest. It is all done with. I knew the person in question very slightly. He dined once at my uncle’s house.’
‘It is the Colonel’s wish,’ Miss Linsley said. ‘And I cannot disappoint Mrs de Courcy, who, I am told, is the widow of a judge.’
‘I,’ said Miss Trevelyan, ‘I am confused.’
As she went to her room, to revive herself for morning school with thought and cold water, several little girls who greeted her were frightened by the wind of her skirts, as well as surprised at her appearance, for her skin had turned a dark brown. But in her room, the mistress realized how little she knew herself, for she did wish to be questioned by the Colonel, though trembling already for the consequences, whatever they might prove to be.
Very quickly the day was upon them. As she waited in the hall for Miss Trevelyan and the hired carriage, Mary Hebden, in a pretty gauffered hat, thought she might be sick upon the sweating stones. She sat very formally, however, the starch of her best petticoat cutting cruelly into her knee, in every way a worthy sacrifice to Mrs de Courcy’s gathering.
Mrs de Courcy, a lady in comfortable circumstances, was herself excited, though not at the prospect of her party, for she entertained a good deal. She was moved, rather, by the presence of her cousin, Colonel Hebden, a tall, copper-coloured gentleman of a distinguished ugliness, who had done such a brave thing in going off into the bush after the lost explorer, not at all a desirable individual, she understood, and a foreigner as well.
‘You are singularly uncommunicative on the subject of your expedition,’ she now complained to the Colonel, whom she had bidden early, so that she might enjoy looking at him, and hearing things that other people would not. ‘Did you find nothing?’
‘A button under a tree,’ said the Colonel, who could not take delightful women seriously.
Moreover, he had at one time allowed himself to be persuaded that his cousin was the most delightful of all.
‘A button? If I am such an idiot!’ protested Mrs de Courcy. ‘You are an exasperating wretch, Hugo. But I shall stop pestering, since I am not a person to be trusted with information of significance.’
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