Read Online Nightingale Wood by Stella Gibbons - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stella Gibbons
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her father as he read, and to listen to the smoothly rolling tones; she felt no curiosity about what the words meant. It was only Shakespeare, and she was used to him.
But she did not like being kissed by Jim and Roger, Tom and Archie. When they whispered that they were crazy about her, she wriggled away and suggested that they should try to get to Paris. The Crowd liked her, summing her up as a funny little thing, under-sexed, but sweet.
She had enjoyed her three months with The Crowd. Now, it seemed impossible that she had ever had such a lovely time.
Yet nearly all her money was gone.
She had been afraid to refuse to live at The Eagles. She felt, strongly if not clearly, that it was up to her to go there because she had not loved Teddy as much as he had loved her. Shirley had promised to find her a job, but Viola had not been sure that she could do the sort of job that Shirley would find; she was not clever.
On the whole, what with being afraid of Mr Wither, and her conscience, and having very little money, and not wanting to sponge on Shirley, and being firmly told to do her duty and be grateful for her luck by old Miss Cattyman and the aunts in Chesterbourne, she had decided that it would be best to go.
Here she looked up, saw a little path going into the wood, and turned down it, still with bowed head and hands in her pockets. She was planning a long letter to Shirley that she would write that evening.
The evenings at The Eagles were almost the worst part of the twenty-four hours, because, outside the house, all was so beautiful. The sunset slowly faded into a tender twilight, the stars shone out, and the young moon, and if anyone glanced up at the tall windows of the drawing-room, a big, slow-flying bird was crossing the flushed sky on its homeward way – a heron, perhaps, or a swan from the marshes.
‘What became of that piece of cold pork?’ would demand Mr Wither, looking up suddenly from his newspaper.
‘It’s all right, dear; Cook is making some patties.’
Mr Wither would return to the journal.
Viola would sit with a ten-year-old novel by Berta Ruck (a lovely story, lent to her by Tina, but it only made her feel worse because the young man in it was such a darling), wondering what Shirley and The Crowd were doing, and then at a quarter-past ten it was time to go to bed, and tomorrow evening would be exactly the same, for ever , unless some awful old thing about fifty came to dinner and what was the use of that?
So this evening, for a change, she would write to Shirley and tell her how ghastly it was, and how mouldy were all the Therms, except Tina who was really very decent only she got on your nerves because she was simply dying to get married, and not a hope, my dear, she must be forty if she’s a day. And I daren’t take the bus into Chesterbourne to see Catty and the aunts because the Therms pull such a face if I even mention THE SHOP!
It’s funny about being married, she thought, walking deeper into the wood. I didn’t mind it, but it all seemed so ordinary, somehow, not a bit like what you read in books, and even now I don’t feel like Mrs Wither (she smiled), I feel just the same as I did when I was at school, only not so happy. Well, you wouldn’t expect a widow and an orphan to be happy, of course.
Here she stopped her soft whistling, realizing how quiet everything was, and stared vaguely about her.
The broad light above the road had gradually gone, veiled away by branch after branch laden with transparent, rosy-dun leaves, stiff and fresh. Young birches, and dark festoons of vigorous ivy matted on the oak trunks, helped to make this gradual veil and seclusion, while a feeling of freshness, solitude and peace told her that she was in the heart of the little wood. She looked up into the delicate shades of a massive bough, thinking, ‘It’s lovely here.’ The path still sloped gently down, and under a hollow made by fern curling over and by hazel thickets, she heard water
But she did not like being kissed by Jim and Roger, Tom and Archie. When they whispered that they were crazy about her, she wriggled away and suggested that they should try to get to Paris. The Crowd liked her, summing her up as a funny little thing, under-sexed, but sweet.
She had enjoyed her three months with The Crowd. Now, it seemed impossible that she had ever had such a lovely time.
Yet nearly all her money was gone.
She had been afraid to refuse to live at The Eagles. She felt, strongly if not clearly, that it was up to her to go there because she had not loved Teddy as much as he had loved her. Shirley had promised to find her a job, but Viola had not been sure that she could do the sort of job that Shirley would find; she was not clever.
On the whole, what with being afraid of Mr Wither, and her conscience, and having very little money, and not wanting to sponge on Shirley, and being firmly told to do her duty and be grateful for her luck by old Miss Cattyman and the aunts in Chesterbourne, she had decided that it would be best to go.
Here she looked up, saw a little path going into the wood, and turned down it, still with bowed head and hands in her pockets. She was planning a long letter to Shirley that she would write that evening.
The evenings at The Eagles were almost the worst part of the twenty-four hours, because, outside the house, all was so beautiful. The sunset slowly faded into a tender twilight, the stars shone out, and the young moon, and if anyone glanced up at the tall windows of the drawing-room, a big, slow-flying bird was crossing the flushed sky on its homeward way – a heron, perhaps, or a swan from the marshes.
‘What became of that piece of cold pork?’ would demand Mr Wither, looking up suddenly from his newspaper.
‘It’s all right, dear; Cook is making some patties.’
Mr Wither would return to the journal.
Viola would sit with a ten-year-old novel by Berta Ruck (a lovely story, lent to her by Tina, but it only made her feel worse because the young man in it was such a darling), wondering what Shirley and The Crowd were doing, and then at a quarter-past ten it was time to go to bed, and tomorrow evening would be exactly the same, for ever , unless some awful old thing about fifty came to dinner and what was the use of that?
So this evening, for a change, she would write to Shirley and tell her how ghastly it was, and how mouldy were all the Therms, except Tina who was really very decent only she got on your nerves because she was simply dying to get married, and not a hope, my dear, she must be forty if she’s a day. And I daren’t take the bus into Chesterbourne to see Catty and the aunts because the Therms pull such a face if I even mention THE SHOP!
It’s funny about being married, she thought, walking deeper into the wood. I didn’t mind it, but it all seemed so ordinary, somehow, not a bit like what you read in books, and even now I don’t feel like Mrs Wither (she smiled), I feel just the same as I did when I was at school, only not so happy. Well, you wouldn’t expect a widow and an orphan to be happy, of course.
Here she stopped her soft whistling, realizing how quiet everything was, and stared vaguely about her.
The broad light above the road had gradually gone, veiled away by branch after branch laden with transparent, rosy-dun leaves, stiff and fresh. Young birches, and dark festoons of vigorous ivy matted on the oak trunks, helped to make this gradual veil and seclusion, while a feeling of freshness, solitude and peace told her that she was in the heart of the little wood. She looked up into the delicate shades of a massive bough, thinking, ‘It’s lovely here.’ The path still sloped gently down, and under a hollow made by fern curling over and by hazel thickets, she heard water
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