Voss

14

THREE little girls, three friends, were tossing their braided heads in the privacy of some laurels, a nest of confidences and place of pacts, to which they almost always repaired with the varnished buns that the younger Miss Linsley distributed to the children at eleven o’clock.

‘I like potatoes,’ Mary Hebden said.

‘Mmmm?’ Mary Cox replied, in doubt.

‘I like pumpkin best,’ said Mary Hayley.

‘Oh, well, best!’ Mary Hebden protested. ‘Who was talking of best?’

They were all three skipping and jumping, as they licked the few grains of sugar off the insipid, glossy buns. It was their custom to do several things at once, for freedom is regrettably brief.

‘I like strawberries best.’ Mary Hebden jumped and panted.

‘Strawberries!’ shrieked Mary Cox. ‘Who will get strawberries?’

‘I will,’ said Mary Hebden. ‘Although I am not supposed to tell.’

‘That is one of the things you expect us to believe,’ Mary Hayley said. ‘As if we was silly.’

‘Simple dimple had a pimple,’ chanted Mary Cox.

‘Syllables of sillicles,’ sang Mary Hayley, in her rather pure voice.

‘Very well, then,’ said Mary Hebden. ‘I had begun to tell. But will not now. Thanks to you, they will not be able to say I cannot keep promises.’

Mary Hebden had stopped. She shook her braids with mysterious importance, and began to suck her inkstains.

‘Old ink-drinker!’ accused Mary Cox.

‘I will drink sherbet this afternoon,’ said Mary Hebden.

She held her finger up to the light, and the sucked ink shone.

‘Like anything, you will,’ said Mary Hayley. ‘Between sewing and prayers.’

‘Very well, then,’ cried Mary Hebden, who could not bear it. ‘I will tell you.’

All the braids were still.

‘I am going to a party at Waverley, for grown-up people, at the home of Mrs de Courcy, who is a kind of cousin of my father’s.’

‘A party in term time?’ doubted Mary Cox.

‘And if it is for grown-ups, why should a child be going?’ asked Mary Hayley. ‘I do not believe it.’

‘It is a special occasion. It is quite true, I tell you.’

‘You have told us so many things,’ said Mary Cox.

‘But this is true. I swear it upon my double honour. It is a party for my uncle, who has come back from searching for that explorer who got lost. That German.’

‘Uggh!’ said Mary Hayley. ‘Germans!’

‘Do you know any?’ asked Mary Cox.

‘No,’ Mary Hayley replied. ‘And I do not want to. Because I would not like them.’

‘You are the silly one,’ Mary Hebden decided.

‘My father says that if you cannot be English, it is all right to be Scotch. But the Irish and everyone else is awful,’ said Mary Hayley. ‘Although the Dutch are very clean.’

‘But we are not English, not properly, not any more.’

‘Oh, that is different,’ said Mary Hayley. ‘Yourself is always different.’

‘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 Linsleys’ 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 Mary,’ 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.’

‘You cannot expect a man returned from the bush to be obsessed by information of significance when faced with whipped cream,’ Colonel Hebden replied.

‘Yet, you are obsessed,’ said Mrs de Courcy, whom he had intended to please.

A woman of some intelligence, she had set to work early in life to disguise her share of intellect, out of regard for the exigencies of Society, and a liking for the company of men. Such ruthlessness was almost justified by her triumphs as a hostess, the success of her late husband’s career, to which she had devoted herself unceasingly, and the continued admiration of all gentlemen. If most ladies were guarded, if not actually cold in their relationships with Mrs de Courcy, it suited her, for ladies did not enter into her scheme, except to keep the ball rolling through the hoops of social intercourse.

‘Obsessed,’ she repeated, patting a bow of the dress which she could no longer feel suited her.

‘I have lost the habit of civilized life,’ explained the Colonel.

‘You are in love with the country!’ cried Mrs de Courcy, with deliberate raucousness, making it sound like a lesson a parrot had learnt.

Today, however, he was not pleased by a display of mere skill.

‘If you had been a man, Effie, you might have become an explorer. You are sufficiently tenacious. Your thirst for conquest would have carried you over the worst of actual thirst.’

‘Though my character may be nasty enough, as you suggest, I would have become an explorer out of sheer boredom,’ Mrs de Courcy broke in.

‘Voss appears to have been inspired.’

‘Oh, Voss, Voss, Voss! And noble You? Do not tell me that you are not inspired also!’

‘I am a tentative explorer,’ said the Colonel, quite humbly for an imposing man, ‘or less than that, even — one who follows in the tracks of another, not so much to find him alive at the end, as to satisfy curiosity.’

‘You are honest,’ cried his companion, ‘and that is why I love you.’

That you no longer love me, and I am not honest enough to admit, was what she did not add.

Instead, she said, extending her throat, until it reached the point where youth returns:

‘I have a surprise for you.’

The Colonel expressed gratitude, even though he did not hope to experience surprise.

‘Strawberries,’ he said, dutifully.

‘Strawberries, certainly. But also a bitter draught. At least, I am told it is bitter by those who know. A young woman who was acquainted with your German. How intimately, those who are close to her refuse to admit. But it is common knowledge that they were conducting a correspondence.’

‘This is capital, Effie!’ shouted the Colonel, at last forgetful of the furniture.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Effie. ‘Capital. Then I shall claim my reward.’

And did.

Just then, one of the three old servants who had waited on Mrs de Courcy for years came to announce the arrival of the first guests. The mistress was unperturbed, since old Margery, although still able to function so admirably at her duties, was almost deaf and blind, as well as unsurprised.

‘Let us go down, then,’ said the hostess to Colonel Hebden, not without glancing moist-eyed at herself in a convenient glass, ‘let us go down and allow the worthy people to demolish what remains.

‘The young woman, by the way,’ she thought to add, ‘is under the impression that it is you who have sent for her.’

‘If it were I, not you, the situation could be embarrassing.’

‘I do not doubt that, in either event.’

As he followed his cousin, the Colonel was busily lowering his head to avoid cracking it upon the lintels, and in consequence did not attempt to prolong the conversation.

Guests were arriving all the time. The more established among them stood about between the flower-beds, on the springy lawns, and examined with an exaggerated interest the magnificent shrubs for which Mrs de Courcy’s garden was famed, while others pretended not to eye the tea-tables, which had been set up beneath the natural canopy of a weeping elm. Except for an enormous silver urn, ornamented with shells, wreaths, and mythical figures in a variety of positions, the load of these tables was protected from flies and eyes by nets, so weighted with festoons of little crystal beads that the valleys were green with mystery and the snowy peaks thrillingly exposed. While some of her guests were indulging in the ecstasies of soul that such a garden usually provokes, and others wondered whether they were correctly buttoned or whether to recognize the Joneses, Mrs de Courcy regarded everything as inevitably humorous, weaving in and out, in her expensive dress, refusing to countenance a segregation of the sexes, ladies who would talk bonnets and preserves, or gentlemen who must discuss wool and weather. Such was the skill of the hostess, everyone was soon daringly mixed, and in no time had she organized a game of croquet for the completely inarticulate.

‘I cannot bear it if we are a mallet short. Perhaps Mr Rankin will look in the little summer-house behind the tea trees. I see that he is the practical one.’

Young girls fell to neighing.

With her experience behind her, and a cool southerly breeze, the hostess could not help but succeed. Simple people, worthy tradesmen and their wives, and sheep-and-bullocky gentlemen from the country, were prevented by their very simplicity from wondering whether Mrs de Courcy might be considered fast, whereas those others who were of the same worldly category as herself were always far too busily engaged to notice. She was accepted, then, through ignorance and by collusion, and should have been satisfied. Yet she would sometimes halt within the frame of the conventions, like some imperious lily and, while eyes admired her for her beads and spangles, know that she would have preferred the summer’s coup de grâce.

‘Almost everybody as obedient as one would wish.’ She frowned at the Colonel.

‘My dear Effie,’ he laughed, ‘if I am a disappointment to you, it is because I am in some way deficient. You must learn to accept the deficiencies of human beings.’

‘There, at least, is your surprise,’ his cousin revealed, giving the most exquisitely tragic inflexions to flat words.

‘Why, Mary!’ boomed the Colonel, and had to embrace the vision of his niece.

The latter had forgotten that agreeable smell peculiar to her uncles, her father, and all acceptable men, and was, in consequence, taken aback. In her embarrassment and pleasure, she was warning him about her good hat.

‘What! Grown so old?’ protested Colonel Hebden.

‘And Miss Trevelyan, who has so kindly accompanied Mary from her school.’

Now he did notice the person in the grey dress, whom Mrs de Courcy had summed up — wrongly — at a glance. The Colonel, who was accustomed to walk carefully on approaching nests and waterholes, so as not to break sticks and cause alarm, proceeded to question his niece quite professionally on her scholastic achievements. He would ignore the schoolmistress for the time being.

Laura Trevelyan was perfectly at home in the environment to which she was no longer expected to belong. There were few by now who recognized her. New arrivals in the Colony, of whom invariably there seemed to be a preponderance, were unaware of her origins, and those who were safely established had too little thought for anything but their own success to point to an insignificant failure. This judgement of the world was received by Laura without shame. Indeed, she had discovered many compensations, for now that she was completely detached, she saw more deeply and more truthfully, and often loved what she saw, whether inanimate objects, such as a laborious plateful of pink meringues, or, in the case of human beings, a young wife striving with feverish elegance to disguise the presence of her unborn child.

This young woman, arranging stole, gloves, and a little, fringed parasol, did approach the schoolmistress with some defiance, and remark:

‘Why, Laura, fancy meeting you. Mamma understood from Mrs Bonner that you had renounced the world.’

‘Why, Una,’ Laura replied, ‘if Mrs Pringle understood that I had entered an enclosed order, that was misunderstanding indeed.’

Then the two friends stood and laughed together. If Mrs McAllister laughed too long, it was because she had always disliked Laura, and Laura had lost in the game of life. Now was the moment for Una to produce her husband, which Una did, as further evidence of her triumph; whereupon Laura recognized the eligible grazier of the picnic at Point Piper. So what more remained for Una Pringle to achieve? Unless the days upon days upon days.

‘How happy you must be at Camden,’ Laura said.

‘Oh, yes,’ Una was forced to admit. ‘Although there are still a great many alterations to be made. It is one of those houses. And the white ant, I do believe, is in every sash.’

Una’s orange giant stood with his fists upon his hips, and grinned. His teeth were broad, and wide-set, which fascinated Laura.

‘And lonely,’ continued Una McAllister, closely examining Laura Trevelyan. ‘You would not believe it could be lonely at Camden.’

Una’s husband almost split his excellent coat.

‘You will soon have the baby,’ Laura consoled.

Una flushed, and mentioned strawberries.

So her husband followed, with the patience of a man accustomed to coax a mob of sheep through a gateway.

After that, Laura Trevelyan remained standing, in her grey dress, in the midst of the company, and it appeared as though, for once, Mrs de Courcy had failed, it could have been deliberately, until Colonel Hebden approached, on his long and rather proppy legs, and announced without preamble:

‘Miss Trevelyan, I would be most interested to have a few words with you on a certain subject, if you would spare me ten minutes.’

Knowing that he was to be her torturer, Laura Trevelyan had not looked at Colonel Hebden until now. His face was kind, although its remaining so would perhaps depend on whether he attained his object.

‘I do not imagine I shall be able to satisfy your curiosity,’ Miss Trevelyan answered at once, clasping her hands together as they walked away. ‘I had heard that you wished to question me. It would give me great pleasure. But —’

They were marching rather than walking, and regimented words filled her mouth.

‘I do not want to open old wounds, nor intrude upon your private feelings,’ the equally stilted Colonel pursued.

Although wooden, he continued, nevertheless, to walk firmly towards a little summer-house that he had spied out beforehand, behind some tea trees. The schoolmistress, through necessity, was trying to match his gait, almost like a man. She was rather dark, but pleasant.

‘I am grateful for your concern in the matter,’ she was saying. ‘But I assure you your delicacy is misplaced. Mr Voss was an acquaintance of a few days, indeed, no more than a few hours, if one stops to consider.’

‘Quite,’ said the Colonel, putting his hand in the small of her back to guide her into the summer-house. ‘It is natural, Miss Trevelyan, to form impressions even in a few hours. But, if you are unwilling to share those impressions, who am I to force you?’

They continued to stand, although there were some benches and a small, rustic table. The furniture moved grittily as the man and woman jostled it.

‘But I know so very little,’ Miss Trevelyan protested.

If that little is not everything, the Colonel felt.

They were sitting down. They were putting their hands in front of them on the table.

‘And besides,’ she said, ‘if my memories are partly of an unpleasant nature, I do not care to tell them of somebody who is, or, rather, who could be, dead. I do know, however, that Mr Voss had some very undesirable, even horrible qualities.’

‘That is of the greatest interest,’ said the Colonel.

‘Otherwise,’ she said, ‘I do not believe that he would have been a man.’

If it had been Mrs de Courcy who had spoken, the Colonel would have understood that this was the point at which to make a joke.

But the schoolmistress was moistening her lips.

‘Such horrible qualities,’ she added, ‘one wonders whether one has not interpreted them according to what one knows of oneself. Oh, I do not mean what one knows. What one suspects!’

She was very agitated. Although still a young woman, and beautiful, she had aged, he realized, and recently. Her dark eyes were filling the little summer-house. They were brimming and swimming.

‘Do you consider the unfortunate qualities of which you speak might have grated on the men under his command and weakened his hold as a leader?’

She was looking about her. Now she was caught. The little summer-house was most skilfully constructed, of closely plaited twigs. It had a deserted smell.

She could not answer him, nor look, not even at his bony hands. The silence was stretching. Then, when it had almost broken, she shuddered, and cried out:

‘You would cut my head off, if letting my blood run would do you any good.’

‘It is not for my sake. It is for Mr Voss.’

‘Mr Voss is already history.’

‘But history is not acceptable until it is sifted for the truth. Sometimes this can never be reached.’

She was hanging her head. She was horribly twisted.

‘No, never,’ she agreed. ‘It is all lies. While there are men, there will always be lies. I do not know the truth about myself, unless I sometimes dream it.’

‘Shall I tell you what I know?’ asked the Colonel keenly. ‘About Voss? Or are you not sufficiently interested in the fate of a mere acquaintance?’

‘For all your kindness, you are the cruellest,’ she said, looking at the table.

‘On my travels I spent several nights at Jildra Station, the property on the Darling Downs from which the expedition started out. Mr Boyle, the owner, was helpful, but unreliable, owing to his inordinate liking for rum. Two blackfellows from Jildra accompanied Voss to the west. One, an old man, returned soon after setting out. The second reached the station, how long afterwards I am unable to calculate owing to Boyle’s vagueness, but certainly a considerable time. The old man, Dugald, talked to this boy, who seemed to be in a state of perpetual mental distress, even unhinged, in Boyle’s opinion. Boyle questioned Dugald, who professed to have learnt from the lad that a mutiny had taken place. Then the boy — Jackie, I think his name was….’

‘Jackie,’ said Laura Trevelyan.

The Colonel frowned at his audience for the interruption, and continued.

‘Jackie wandered away from Jildra. He returns on and off, but his movements and behaviour are incalculable. I would have questioned Dugald personally, but was informed that the old native had died a few weeks before my arrival at the station.’

Colonel Hebden, who was accustomed to tearful women, had become conscious of a dry, burning misery. He did not look at Miss Trevelyan, however.

‘Another fact of interest. Some time after the apparent disappearance of the expedition, a tribe of aboriginals, driven eastward by drought, put in at Jildra, were entertained by the station natives, and fed by the owner. On one occasion, it appears, the visitors held a corroboree, in the course of which they enacted a massacre of horses. Again, Boyle, who was almost continually in his cups, could not provide me with satisfying details.’

In the silence the two people listened to the pricking of the tea-tree walls.

‘What of Jackie?’ Laura Trevelyan said.

She did not ask. She was too heavy. Her intonation was one of statement, rather.

‘You know,’ said the Colonel, ‘that is where I have failed. I will go back. You have convinced me, Miss Trevelyan, that I should. Thank you.’

‘Oh, no,’ she begged. ‘Do not go back. They are dead. It is over. Let them be. We suffered enough, all of us.’

‘Of all those men, some could have survived. Jackie did. And we must not forget the mutineers. However blameworthy their behaviour, we cannot abandon them, poor devils.’

Miss Trevelyan bit her mouth.

‘Voss could have been the Devil,’ she seemed to remember, ‘if at the same time he had not resembled a most unfortunate human being.’

How unfortunate, the Colonel saw, now that the pride of this young woman had crumbled into a distorted pity. For a man, he was extraordinarily interested in women. He had always been interested rather than in love, except in the case of his wife, and there his love was, perhaps, more a mingling of ‘appeased convention and affectionate respect.

But he could not continue to look at the schoolmistress, waiting for her to resume her shell, nor would words of comfort have been other than clumsy, so he simply said:

‘I am sorry. Perhaps you would rather I left you.’

She refused his offer, however, saying:

‘One must resist the impulse to hide in corners.’

Then she got up, smoothing her rather suitable dress of plain grey.

As they walked between the trees towards the guests, she continued to tremble, and Mrs de Courcy, who had been expecting them, came forward looking anxious.

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ she asked of Miss Trevelyan, in accents that expressed sympathy, while her face was searching for some clue.

‘No, thank you,’ Laura replied, but gratefully.

Nobody could be ungrateful to anyone as beautiful and condescending as Mrs de Courcy.

There was soon no reason to remain at the party. The luxurious tea-tables had begun to look derelict, and little Mary Hebden, running hot and sticky amongst the guests, had become, regrettably, a nuisance.

At one old gentleman, who had been entertaining her by knotting his handkerchief into a variety of clever shapes, she shouted at last:

‘I could push you over if I liked. I am stronger than you.’

So that her governess decided to remove her. In doing so, and in thanking Mrs de Courcy for the pleasure her charge had experienced, Miss Trevelyan omitted to take leave of Colonel Hebden.

‘Did you like my uncle?’ asked Mary, almost as soon as they were seated in the carriage.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Trevelyan. ‘He was extremely agreeable. And kind.’

Mary Hebden sighed, for all the men she knew, or it could have been that she was feeling sick from over-eating. Then the two passengers huddled against each other, in the stuffy atmosphere of oats and chaff that distinguished all vehicles from a livery stable.

‘And what are your plans?’ asked Mrs de Courcy of Colonel Hebden under the weeping elm.

‘I intend to return to Bathurst tomorrow,’ the Colonel volunteered.

‘I am happy to think Amelia and the children will benefit from your consideration,’ Mrs de Courcy said.

‘But shall leave shortly for Brisbane and Jildra. I realize that I did not fulfil my undertakings in those parts.’

‘You realized today. Thanks to Miss Trevelyan. I am jealous.’

‘You have no cause to be. I do not doubt that Miss Trevelyan is a young woman of considerable attainments. Quite beautiful, too. But beauty of an intellectual cast.’

‘Do not tell me!’ cried Mrs dc Courcy in mock rage.

In fact, all emotions must now be simulated, she knew from experience. If their relationship was to endure at all, it must do so on the frail thread of irony.

‘You devil,’ she added.

‘I have heard that word before,’ he laughed, opening his rather craggy face. ‘But, in this instance, its use is unjustified. Truly it is.’

It would have taken a far more serious accusation to quench the high spirits that the prospect of his journey had aroused. The attempts of the schoolmistress to discourage him had acted as a spur, and he had remained in a state of elation ever since. A man of less developed vanity might have inquired more deeply into Miss Trevelyan’s fears. But Colonel Hebden did not. In fact, he would give little further thought to one who could be of no more use to him.