‘We must think of something for the wretched soul,’ said the kind friend, and hoped with that to close the subject.
Mrs Bonner, who was a tidy woman, would have turned her maid into the street and learnt to think no more about it, if her family might not have reminded her. In the circumstances, she did not dare, and the question of Rose’s future continued nagging at her martyred mind.
One afternoon of deepest summer, when a brickfielder was blowing, and the hideous native trees were fiendish, and the air had turned brown, Mrs Bonner developed a migraine, and became positively hysterical. She flung herself too hard upon that upright sofa in the drawing-room, on which it was her habit to arrange people to listen to music, and was sobbing between gusts of eau de Cologne.
‘But what is it, Aunt Emmy?’ asked her niece, who had swirled in.
They were alone on that afternoon, except for the heavy Rose, since Belle had been driven to the Lending Library, and Mr Bonner was not yet returned from the establishment in George Street, and Cassie and Edith had started, unwisely, on a picnic with acquaintances while the gale was still threatening.
‘What is it?’ Laura asked, and was smacking the backs of her aunt’s hands.
‘I do not know,’ Mrs Bonner replied.
For, it was everything.
‘It is nothing,’ she choked. ‘It is the dust. It is those dreadful trees, which I can only wish all cut down.’
Waves of resentment surged through Mrs Bonner.
‘It is that Rose,’ she cried, as wind struck its greatest blow hitherto, and sashes rattled. ‘For whom we must all suffer. And cannot receive, in our own home, except our most intimate acquaintance. Because of Rose. And Belle, I am ashamed, must see this everlasting Rose. To say nothing of the young girl in the kitchen, to whom it is an example that could well influence her whole life.’
‘There, Aunt,’ said Laura Trevelyan, and produced her own green smelling-bottle.
‘Then it is Rose,’ she added.
‘I will not deny I am distracted,’ Mrs Bonner sobbed, but drier.
The younger woman had sat down, and, after she had reconciled her watered silk to the rather awkward little chair, announced with a composure that might have been rehearsed.
‘I think, Aunt, that I have a plan.’
Mrs Bonner sniffed so sharp that her nostrils were cut by hartshorn.
‘Ah, dear Laura,’ she gasped. ‘I knew you would.’ And coughed. ‘I believe you have had one all the time, and for some reason that I do not understand, chose to be naughty.’
The young woman was very grave, yet calm, on her wave of grey silk that she was smoothing and coaxing.
I do not understand Laura, Mrs Bonner remembered, not without apprehension.
‘What is your plan?’ she asked.
The young woman was taking her time. She was quite pregnant with some idea waiting to be born. She would not be hurt by any precipitate behaviour of others. She was shielding herself.
And so, she lowered the lids of her mild, yet watchful eyes. At the same time, her engrossed expression did allow her to smile, a smile of great sweetness. Aunt Emmy had to admit: Laura’s face has melted.
Laura said:
‘It is a plan, and it is not a plan. At least, it is the beginning of one, which will grow if circumstances permit.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Bonner, who had hoped for a strong box in which to lock her annoyances. ‘It is not a secret plan, I hope?’
‘It is so simple that I am afraid you may not call it a plan at all.’
‘Tell me,’ Mrs Bonner begged.
‘I cannot tell you, except the beginning of it, because the end has still to come. But, for a start, I have brought Rose down from the attic into the spare room.’
‘Into the best room!’ Mrs Bonner hissed.
‘She will stay there quietly. I will take her all her meals on a tray. It will be a matter of a few days, by Rose’s calculations. I have engaged a midwife, of good reputation, from inquiries I have made, who lives in a cottage in Woolloomooloo, and whose name, you must appreciate it, is Mrs Child.’
‘In the best room!’ Mrs Bonner cried.
‘What is all this?’ asked the merchant, who had come in.
‘That dreadful woman,’ cried his wife, ‘is to have her … Rose Portion in the best room! Laura has done it, and behind my back.’
For Mr Bonner, who hated disturbance, awful prospects were opening in his own house. He listened to the sound of dresses. Complexions were accusing him. He was surounded by women.
‘Laura,’ he began, seizing any weapon, however blunted, ‘I cannot believe that you have been so thoughtless.’
Like most people, Mr Bonner cherished the opinion that he alone considered others.
‘On the contrary, I have given the matter considerable thought,’ replied the wretched Laura, ‘and am haunted by a similar situation in which I am having my baby in an attic, or worse, in the street.’
‘Your baby?’ asked her uncle, in a white voice.
‘Laura is suffering from an unhealthy imagination. That is all, Mr Bonner,’ explained the aunt. ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear.’
The young woman had grown very hard inside her murmurous silk of dove grey.
‘Lord, give me patience,’ she said. ‘If truth is not acceptable, it becomes the imagination of others.’
‘From one who has been treated as a daughter!’ cried Aunt Emmy.
‘It is obvious that she prefers to forget,’ added the uncle, who was not as impressive as he should have been; frequently he would find himself bringing up the rear.
‘When one is unhappy, one does forget,’ Laura admitted. ‘Threats and injustices overshadow all the comfortable advantages.’
Beyond the window-pane, trees were fluctuating, the brown world was heaving. Even in the nice room, despite the protest of horsehair and pampas grass, the dust was settling on reflections and in the grain of taffeta, or ran with the perspiration, or the tears, on ladies’ faces.
For, it had grown stuffy, and Aunt Emmy was crying again.
‘I do not understand,’ she protested, ‘the necessity to be miserable when one need not be.’
‘But we need not, Aunt Emmy,’ cried Laura.
At times she was very quick, glancing, her eyes glittering.
‘Do you not understand the importance of this life which we are going to bring into our house? Regardless of its origin. It is a life. It is my life, your life, anybody’s life. It is life. I am so happy for it. And frightened. That something may destroy this proof of life. Some thoughtlessness. Poor Rose, she does not care a bit about her baby, yet. She will, of course. In the meantime, I must protect it from everyone. Until it can speak for itself. Aunt, dear, if you will only wait to hear.’
Mrs Bonner sighed.
‘I cannot let myself be won over against my reason, Laura. Babies are, of course, very pretty. But.’
Mrs Bonner had, as yet, refused to visualize this baby, and smell the smell of warm flannel.
‘Then I appeal to you, Uncle,’ said Laura, cruelly.
In argument her hand had become an ivory fist, but she herself was again softening. She had a certain waxiness, observed her uncle, who would walk in his garden in the evening amongst those camellia bushes he had planted as a young man.
‘To you, Uncle,’ Laura was saying.
‘I?’ exclaimed Mr Bonner, exposed. ‘I, of course, agree with your aunt. Though there is something to be said, one must confess, for your argument, Laura, at least, shall we say, in its general principle. One must applaud the humanity of your viewpoint. It is the allegory that I do not go much on. You know I am a plain man.’
‘Then, for goodness’ sake, let us prune my argument of allegory,’ Laura hastened to reply. ‘Let it be quite naked. Let us receive this poor child into the world with love. That is argument enough. Or I will love it, if necessary. As if it had been mine. Let me. Let me.’