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 Mary,’ Miss Linsley continued.