Read Online Mansfield with Monsters by Katherine Mansfield - Free Book Online Page A

Bertha.
    â€œWe only have a new coffee machine once a fortnight,” said Harry. Face took her arm this time; Miss Fulton bent her head and followed after.
    The fire had died down in the drawing-room to a red, flickering “nest of baby phoenixes,” said Face.
    At that moment Miss Fulton ‘gave the sign’.
    â€œHave you a garden?” said the cool, sleepy voice.
    This was so exquisite on her part that all Bertha could do was to obey. She crossed the room, pulled the curtains apart, and opened those long windows.
    â€œThere!” she breathed.
    And the two women stood side by side looking at the slender, flowering tree. Although it was so still it seemed, like the flame of a candle, to stretch up, to point, to quiver in the bright air, to grow taller and taller as they gazed so that they might almost touch the rim of the round, silver moon.
    How long did they stand there? Both, as it were, caught in that circle of unearthly light, understanding each other perfectly, creatures of an unspoilt world where the dead did not rise to devour the living, and wondering what they were to do in this one with all this blissful treasure that burned in their bosoms and dropped, in silver flowers, from their hair and hands.
    How long had it been? Forever? For a moment? And did Miss Fulton murmur: “Yes. Just that .” Or did Bertha dream it?
    Then the light was snapped on and Face made the coffee and Harry said: “My dear Mrs Knight, don’t ask me about my baby. I never see him. I shan’t feel the slightest interest in him until he’s old enough to shoot a rifle.”
    Mug talked as though he might never drink the coffee in his hand while Eddie Warren downed his and set down the cup with a face of anguish as though he had drunk and seen the spider.
    Miss Fulton sank into the lowest, deepest chair and Harry handed round the cigarettes.
    From the way he stood in front of her shaking the silver box and saying abruptly: “Egyptian? Turkish? Virginian? They’re all mixed up,” Bertha felt that he really disliked Miss Fulton. And she decided from the way Miss Fulton said: “No, thank you, I won’t smoke,” that she was hurt or confused by it.
    â€œOh, Harry, don’t dislike her,” she thought. “You are quite wrong about her. She’s wonderful, wonderful. And, besides, how can you feel so differently about someone who means so much to me. I shall try to tell you when we are in bed to-night what has been happening. What she and I have shared.”
    At those last words something strange and almost terrifying darted into Bertha’s mind. And this something blind and smiling whispered to her: “Soon these people will go. The house will be quiet. The lights will be out. And you and he will be alone together in the dark room, the warm bed…”
    For the first time in her life Bertha Young desired her husband. Oh, she’d loved him. She’d been in love with him, of course, in every other way, but just not in that way. And equally, of course, she’d understood that he was different. They’d discussed it so often. It had worried her dreadfully at first to find that she was so cold, but after a time it had not seemed to matter. They were so frank with each other, such good pals. That was the best of being modern.
    But now—ardently! ardently! The word ached in her ardent body! Was this what that feeling of bliss had been leading up to?
    â€œMy dear,” said Mrs Norman Knight, “you know our shame. We are the victims of time and train. We must return back to our suburban sanctuary before curfew shuts the tunnel gates. How fortunate you are to have owned a house in the city before the walls went up. But this evening’s been so nice.”
    â€œI’ll come with you into the hall,” said Bertha. “I loved having you. But you must not miss the last train. That’s so awful, isn’t it?”
    â€œWhy doth the