Outbreak of Love Read Online Free Page A

breathing of the countryside and the wholesome earth. Then in the heated room they begin to droop a little, at the same time opening their petals. One afternoon, carelessly, thinking they are about finished, we pour on them the remains of the highly scented China tea, and soon the stems which were limp stand stiffly erect, but with serpentine twists, the result of their wilting. The petals open wider until they are as flat as passionflowers. Livid white streaks appear in the red. The edges become brown but still the petals expand themselves rigidly in their final ecstatic sacrifice, and these innocent flowers, corrupted by the artificial life of cities, no longer breathe of grass walks and the potting shed, but suggest a group of dancers in an Asiatic ballet, the warriors and the young girls of Poltava, or the exotic singing merchants of Sadko.
    Mrs Montaubyn was like the tulips when the tea first begins to seep through to their roots. With her the stimulus was a legacy. She too was of German parentage, though she did not know it, and she had been a barmaid in Sydney. There she had married the wild but chivalrous son of a clergyman, a man of aristocratic origins but weak lungs, who had come to Australia for his health, and had soon been appointed a Canon of St Andrew’s Cathedral. After about a year during which Dick Montaubyn had found it impossible to live with her without the daily mortification of his sensibility, he went to the South African War, where he was killed. His father, barely convalescent from a serious illness, was overcome with grief, had a relapse and died. His will, made some years earlier, left all he had, a comfortable fortune, in trust for his wife, and after her death unconditionally to his son. The elder Mrs Montaubyn would give nothing to her daughter-in-law, whom she regarded as the source of all their misfortunes, and the latter went back to her work at the pub. Two years ago the canon’s widow had died and Mrs Montaubyn the barmaid came into the estate. She moved to Melbourne where, her past being unknown, she thought that she would have more opportunity of going “into society” to which she felt her money and her grand name entitled her. However she was only welcomed by the younger bohemians, who called her “good old Glad” and on whom, now and then, she bestowed money and her favours. Wolfie was the only person whom she had so far met with the faintest connection with people “in society” and he showed no inclination to introduce her to them, which sometimes gave her a sense of unjust treatment. At present this was dormant, but having been ignored by her husband’s family had made her alert to any hint of a slight.
    â€œWill we have a little love first, or will we go straight out to tea?” she asked, putting an arm affectionately round his shoulder. Although they were going to have oysters, a roast duckling each, and various accessories, which could then be had in a French restaurant for about three shillings, she always called her evening meal “tea” which was one of the reasons for her husband’s flight to the war, but Wolfie was not sensitive to these idioms, though a false note of music caused him anguish.
    â€œLet us go to tea first,” he said. “I am not happy tonight.”
    â€œWhat’s up?” she asked with a touch of hostility. “Wouldn’t a little love make you happy?”
    â€œAfter tea, yes. But not now.”
    She looked at him as if uncertain whether to take offence, then she said: “You’re a comic old love-child. I suppose I’ll just have to put up with you.”
    He was touched by the beautiful expression “love-child”, not realizing that it was her euphemism for a much coarser word. He gave her an emotional glance of gratitude.
    â€œAnyhow, what’s given you the hip?” she asked.
    â€œMy wife does not inspire my music.”
    â€œNever mind, dear, I’ll