Nightingale Wood

by Stella Gibbons

  In fact, Saxon was at a near-by pub, innocently employed in playing snooker.

  ‘And how is Hugh liking India?’ asked Madge of Colonel Phillips. Now that one had Polo waiting at home, safe in his kennel, growing daily larger, more obedient, and more satisfactory in every possible way, things were so much jollier that one could ask Colonel Phillips quite cheerfully and naturally how Hugh was liking India, and hear without making an ass of oneself (or at least, not so much of an ass as one used to) that, apart from the niggers and the climate, Hugh seemed to be having a very good time. He’d got his tennis and his swimming and his cricket and his polo, and in his last letter he said that there was just a chance of his regiment getting a look-in at the Waziristan show, if all went well. Here Mrs Colonel Phillips confided to Madge that she, Mrs Colonel Phillips, hoped to hear in Hugh’s next letter that she was a grandmother.

  Madge expressed delight, only just refraining from slapping Mrs Colonel Phillips on the back.

  (I wonder if Polo’ll be awake when we get in? Perhaps he’ll bark. Father oughtn’t to mind if he does; it’ll show he’s going to be a good house-dog. Who’d want a baby when they could have a dog?)

  Supper was over. People began to move back to the ballroom, and Viola glanced round to see if she could find Victor. Yes, there he was, talking to the marvellous girl, who was standing in the doorway with a young man.

  In a minute, thought Viola, I shall be dancing with him.

  ‘Can I have this one?’ said the chemist’s well-informed son, morosely.

  ‘Thanks, awfully, but I’ve got it with Mr Spring.’ She made this sound like a line of poetry. ‘Perhaps—’ but she stopped. Perhaps Victor would want the next dance, as well; it would never do to promise it away.

  ‘I shan’t be five minutes, Phyl; you might just as well wait,’ Victor was saying irritably. ‘You don’t want to go, do you, Bill?’

  ‘Oh rather, if Phyl does.’

  ‘Well, I must go, or my partner’ll think I’m going to cut it. Good night, Bill – thanks very much.’

  Thanks very much for taking Phyl off my hands. Thanks for putting up with her bad temper on the way home, for soothing her in the car, for lighting her a cigarette and mixing her a drink and sitting with her in the moonlight until I get back.

  Where’s my Merry Widow?

  She was standing a little forlornly against the wall looking his way. He waved and nodded reassuringly as he went over to Joe Knoedler, and said something which Mr Knoedler, standing on his little platform, inclined his head to hear. Then Victor came down towards Viola, smiling

  Thank God Phyl had cleared out. He had done his duty by asking her to stop, but now if he wanted to hold the Merry Widow close as they danced, no one would care. They might stare, but they would not care. His mother had gone into a huddle with Lady Dovewood, he could not see Hetty, and young Andrews was well away with some girl or other. He did not care in the least what they all thought, but somehow he found himself looking to see what they were all doing before he put his arm round Viola and they moved away into the dance.

  It was an exciting melody, slow and dreamy and strong, with the swaying rhythm beating through it like the sea under showers of foam. Round and round they swung, Viola’s flying sandals obediently following his lead the fraction of an instant after it. She had no will, no thoughts, she knew no past and no future, going with him as lightly as a flower, her sash fluttering out and the pleats of her frock flying, her eyes half-shut and her lips parted in a little smile of happiness. He held her very close and looked down at her, but she did not once look up at him. The exquisite pleasure of swift movement to music was like a drug, and though she felt his arm holding her ever closer, and saw the firm line of his chin and mouth just above the level of her eyes, she was so lost in delight that she did not realize she was waltzing with Victor Spring. It only seemed that she had been waiting, all her life, for this moment.

  The tune swayed on, pulling the dancers irresistibly like the moon dragging the tides of spring. People glanced at one another and laughed, and waded into the ocean of music as the moonlit bathers had gone out into the silver-green sea. Round and round, white crinolines swaying like the bells of flowers, cloaks swinging gallantly from young shoulders. The music swelled and fell as the waves of warm, moon-swayed water rolled round and round, and the dancers dreamed that life was beautiful, in a world toppling with monster guns and violent death.

  The white crinolines whirled and the music grew faster: she spun in his arms with closed eyes, clinging to him in the dragging waves of the moon-moved sea in which she was drowning. Oh let this go on for ever – but the music clashed to its close.

  ‘Thank you,’ muttered Victor, wiping his forehead, staring at her ecstatic face.

  ‘Oh, that was lovely!’ she cried, eagerly joining in the clapping that broke out on all sides. ‘How beautifully you dance …’

  ‘Just thinking the same about you …’

  ‘I’ve never enjoyed anything so much …’

  People were clapping louder. ‘ ’Core! ’Core!’ they shouted impatiently.

  ‘Oh, let’s have it again,’ cried Viola, clapping until her hands stung and standing on tiptoe to shout ‘ ’Core! ’Core!’ at Mr Knoedler.

  But Mr Knoedler, that dedicated artist, did not personally care for waltzes. When asked to play a certain waltz by a rich young man like Mr Spring, who was a patron of the Cardinal Club where Mr Knoedler and the Boys mostly worked, Mr Knoedler obliged. But Mr Knoedler’s own taste was for Swing, and whacky at that, and into Swing he now burst, hauling the Boys along with him.

  ‘Oh …’ said Viola, disappointed; and at that very moment, like the stroke of twelve in the bemused ears of Cinderella, there sounded in her ear the voice of Mrs Wither.

  ‘Viola, dear,’ said Mrs Wither, standing disapprovingly at her elbow and putting two fingers on her arm. ‘Mr Wither would like to speak to you for a moment.’

  Aw, scram, you old prune, thought Mr Knoedler, scowling at Mrs Wither, for he had fallen heavily for Viola, and he conducted harder than ever, hoping that the violence of Swing would drive Mrs Wither away.

  But Mrs Wither stayed, her fingers upon Viola’s arm, smiling dimly upon young Mr Spring, who being also much moved by the dance and desiring to dance again, was wishing her in the hottest nook in hell.

  ‘Oh …’ said Viola, dismayed, glancing at Victor. ‘But …’

  They were in grave danger, by this time, of being knocked endways-up by the Swing addicts (Chesterbourne had flown straight for Swing like a homing bird) so they edged their way to the wall, and into the arms of Mrs Spring and Hetty, who had been trying to get to Victor but were afraid of Swing.

  ‘Victor, I’m so sorry, but I shall have to go home,’ said his mother quickly in a low tone, smiling and bowing pleasantly to Mrs Wither. (‘How do you do; we haven’t met since our Committee days, have we?’) ‘Can you come at once? I really do feel rather seedy.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, instantly suppressing irritation and desire, and moving towards his mother to his arm. ‘You’ve got your things – that’s right. Will you be all right with Het while I get the car?’

  ‘Of course. Good night, Mrs Wither,’ shouting courteously across the heads of two or three Swing-ites, ‘so nice to have seen you again. We must …’

  The dancers shut them off.

  Victor turned to smile at Viola, but she had turned away. He looked back over his shoulder long enough, however, to see her turn again and to smile at her, and give her an impudent heil-flick with his hand. At that, Viola’s face brightened, too, in a smile; and then they were both (in spite of the ruthless selfishness of contemporary youth) borne away by old women to whom they owed affection and duty.

  ‘Mr Wither is not cross with you, dear, about dancing to that tune,’ began Mrs Wither gently, as Viola steered her across the floor, ‘but he just wants you to come and sit quietly with us for the next two or three dances. You look so hot.’

 
‘What tune?’ asked Viola, still dazed by the strong magic of the waltz.

  ‘The waltz, dear; It was not – well, a very wise thing to do, Mr Wither thinks. Of course, we quite understand that it was difficult for you to refuse to dance when Mr Spring asked you, but that tune—’

  ‘What tune?’ demanded Viola, quite crossly for her. ‘The waltz, do you mean? Why shouldn’t I dance to it? Is there something wrong with it?’

  She was trying to remember the name of the waltz, but there were two waltzes whose titles she always confused. One was the Beautiful Blue Danube.

  ‘Didn’t you know, dear? But you must have, Viola. Everybody knows The Merry Widow. That’s why Mr Wither thinks you’d better come for a little while and sit quietly with us.’

  CHAPTER XIII

  It was all over and everybody was going home. It had been, as usual, a huge success: and Lady Dovewood was telling everyone so, thereby increasing their content and softening the regret naturally felt at the end of a delightful evening.

  But the choicest wine can contain bits of cork, and some of the local crab-apples were departing sourly. The chemist’s son thought the whole affair a sinful waste of money and time. Why had he been fool enough to go? Women never liked him. Roll on, the Revolution. And Mrs Wither was seriously displeased with Viola, who had made herself doubly conspicuous by her hair and by waltzing in that way, to that tune, with Mr Spring; while Tina and Madge had their own reasons for being glad that the evening was ended.

  But Mr Wither was sorry. Mr Wither had enjoyed the Ball, and as he stepped creakingly into the car, helped respectfully by Saxon, he was actually humming a tune, and it was not until his glance fell upon Viola, wrapped in her big cloak, and looking dreamy, that he realized what tune it was, and stopped.

  Yes, of course, Viola had been very indiscreet, very unwise to dance like that. Drawing attention to herself, making herself conspicuous. So Common. Vulgar, even. Throwing herself at young Spring’s head. But there, what else could be expected? Poor Theodore; perhaps it was as well he went when he did.

  Viola, brought back to this world as violently as a suddenly aroused sleepwalker, sat staring out at the streets of Chesterbourne, moving noiselessly past the windows of the car. Mean cottages made into garages, thin, shaky Queen Anne houses, stucco villas, the gold and crimson of Woolworth’s were washed into beauty and mystery by blue-pouring moonlight. Dad died two years ago today; I oughtn’t to be so happy. It was heavenly. If I shut my eyes (she did so, turning her face to the blanched streets so that no one might see) I can feel it all again.

  I wonder if I’ll ever see him again – to talk to, I mean?

  Victor, having a last drink with Phyl and Hetty in the drawing-room before going up to bed, was thinking, among other things, that he wanted very much to see her again, but that it would be wiser not to, especially as he intended to get formally engaged to Phyl next month. No girl had made him feel as Viola had done since that Welsh girl four years ago. That affair had come to an inevitable and satisfying climax, because the Welsh girl was a rover without background, who knew her way about, but a young widow, living half a mile away with her husband’s people, was a very different matter.

  No, it won’t do, thought Victor twenty minutes later, pulling off the tie that Phyllis had arranged for him, and wishing that it would.

  That was very rude of Phyllis, going off like that with Bill, thought Mrs Spring, lying in bed with her face thinly covered by a nourishing cream costing twelve and sixpence a pot and wishing that she did not feel so ill. Even if she was bored, and annoyed with Victor for dancing with that pretty girl in pale blue, she ought not to have gone. I couldn’t say anything, of course, but I think she saw I didn’t like it. Even with such old friends as we are, she ought not to have done it. It’s no use; she wears her things very well, of course, but I can’t really like her at all.

  In fact, Phyllis was also regretting that she had given way to her boredom and irritation by going home. The rest of the party had returned to Grassmere only half an hour after she had, which had not only robbed her gesture of its effect but had done poor Bill, who was in love with her, out of an hour or two alone with her. She might just as well have stayed at the Ball.

  It had been silly, too, to let Victor see that she minded his making a dead set at that girl with the curly hair. I ought to know by this time (thought Phyllis, covering her face with a thin layer of cream costing six and sixpence a pot) that Victor loathes me to behave as though we are married. But he needn’t think I’m going to stand for curly-haired lovelies when we are. Oh no. It makes me look a fool, and I won’t stand for that from anyone.

  He’ll get over it. I can always tell when old Victorious is in a state; he tries so hard not to let one see! Shouldn’t think it’ll come to an affair; he surely wouldn’t start anything with a common little thing like that, living practically next door?

  Anyway, he’d better not.

  She got into bed and snapped off the light.

  When the party arrived at The Eagles, the maids (with Mrs Wither’s permission) had gone to bed, but they had left a cool drink and sandwiches in the morning-room, whither everybody would repair to take a little something and discuss the evening’s events.

  ‘Good night, Saxon.’

  ‘Good night, sir; good night, Madam.’

  He stood correctly by the door, holding it open as they came out one by one. Mr Wither, Mrs Wither, Madge, Viola, Tina.

  ‘Good night, Saxon.’

  ‘Good night, Miss Tina.’

  She did not look at him. The moonlight, the stillness of the woods, the solemn glimmer of tiny stars, acted powerfully upon her senses. How pure the moonlit air smelled! moving very slowly across miles of country where hawthorn and bean-blossom, orchards and gardens, could yet out-perfume the towns and garages, as they had conquered the middens of Charles II’s day. The old earth keeps her sweetness. And I have to go indoors, to bed, thought Tina, with all this beauty outside. I should like to drive all night, away to the sea. She could hear, in fancy, the long waves rolling in.

  Mr Wither shut the front door.

  ‘Oh dear, I am so tired.’ Mrs Wither patted away a yawn and ruefully bent to rub her evening shoe, wherein a faithful corn was undergoing martyrdom.

  ‘Polo didn’t bark,’ announced Madge wistfully, beginning on the egg sandwiches. ‘I expect he’s asleep. I wonder if I just ought to run down—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Wither austerely, with his mouth full. ‘What do you want to do that for? Waking the dog up at one in the morning; you’d never get him to sleep again.’

  There was a sleepy pause while everyone ate. Even Viola ate, for enjoyment had made her hungry; but Tina felt the sandwiches going down in dry lumps, and at last she put a half-finished one on her plate, murmured something about ‘… my bag …’ and slipped from the room.

  I can’t go to sleep without seeing him. It won’t do any harm – just to go out into that light again, and see him, and say good night. It’s a perfectly good excuse – where is my bag, by the way – oh, on the hall seat—

  She had heard the noise of the car’s engine retreat as Saxon drove it round to the side of the house where the garage was; he would be there now, putting it away.

  She ran lightly down the old kitchen stairs that creaked where her feet touched their worn hollows; it was dark, but she knew them so well that she remembered the fifth one had the loudest creak, and stepped on the side instead of the middle. She used to climb down them laboriously when she was a baby girl to ask Cook for a piece of dough to make little men; and run down them when she was a schoolgirl to visit her dog (poor old King, dead these fifteen years) in the yard.

  She hurried across the stone floor, shudderingly hoping that there were no cockroaches, and trying to silence the little voice in her head that insisted she was about to do a silly, undignified action. Giving yourself away, said the little voice. Nonsense, it isn’t as though I hadn’t got an excuse … and it’s so lovely out
there, that blue light on the blue-green woods.

  She stooped to unbolt the yard door. Through its frosted pane she could see the pale glow of moonlight, and hear muffled noises; the car’s engine running, the yapping of Polo, then Saxon’s voice reassuring the dog.

  She got the door open and stood on the step, looking down at Saxon.

  He was stooping to pat Polo, who looked very white in the moon-rays, as he lay on his back with his legs in the air.

  Saxon glanced up. He was laughing, but his face went serious at the sight of her.

  ‘Miss Tina! Is anything wrong?’ He stood up, and his long shadow ran across the yard.

  ‘No.’ Tina’s heart was banging against her side but she spoke coolly. ‘Nothing much, that is … only my bag. I just wondered if you’d seen it?’

  She stepped down on to the dusty cobblestones, a bunch of brown and silver dress gleaming as she held it up in one hand. Her feet looked very small, dark in their satin slippers, on the moon-whitened stone.

  Saxon went towards the open door and she strolled after him. How still the night was! The moon poured her rays from a remote height with an enormous brown moonbow round herself, and not a star within the circle.

  Saxon opened the car and put on the light. She slowly approached the shed.

  ‘It’s not here, Miss Tina.’

  She could see his face, serious and a little concerned, as he lifted up cushions, peered into cubby-holes full of dusters and maps.

  ‘Was there much in it?’

  ‘Oh no, only about five shillings. A silver bag with a tortoiseshell handle,’ in a murmur, standing by the open door, ‘and a lipstick I’m rather fond of.’

  ‘Nice find for some lady,’ said Saxon, turning to smile at her. ‘Perhaps you left it at the Rooms? I can run down there tomorrow morning, I’ve got to go into town for Mr Wither, and ask, if you’d like me to.’