Nightingale Wood by Stella Gibbons Read Free Book Online

not exist; and every room in the warm, perfectly equipped mansion went through the same strict treatment.
    If gin was spilled upon a cushion of bright plum-red velvet with a heavy silver fringe, then that cushion disappeared and another one, of black satin embroidered heavily with irises in fourteen natural shades and costing 49 s . 11 d ., took its place. Should an ashtray in the shape of a winsomely begging Sealyham fall on the floor and chip an ear, away it went, and another, shaped like a coquettishly imploring Cairn, appeared in its stead, each having cost 37 s . 6 d .
    Baskets of brightly gilded wicker full of seasonal plants in blossom hung above the pleasant veranda which ran the length of the house. A troop of dogs sprawled in the sunlight on the veranda floor, not troubling to glance at the open french windows because all five knew that, if they strayed inside, they would be heartily thrashed.
    Below the three tennis courts a shrubbery of rhododendrons sloped to the banks of the Bourne, where Victor had a private landing-stage, and the house for his outboard, punt and little sailing-boat. Every now and then a white sail glided past above the dark green bushes or the patched one of a barge, the colour of a tiger-lily, loomed by on its way up to Chesterbourne.
    The house and grounds had that feeling (delightful or not so delightful; that depends upon whether one likes parties) of moving a little faster than other places, as though it were always upon the brink of a party. This was because cheerful, though permissible, noises sounded through the parquet-floored corridors and the luxurious rooms that did not contain a single book. A pretty maid steered the Hoover across a carpet (Mrs Spring hated plain maids; they depressed her), a burst of gay music came from a wireless that was being overhauled in readiness for next weekend’s party, a young gardener whistled as he worked, or Mrs Spring sat before her pianola playing the Handkerchief Dance. The telephone rang every half-hour or so. Vans from Harrods, from Fortnum and Mason and Cartier, came up to the house, and out of them came plain, wickedly expensive-looking parcels that were carried triumphantly indoors. These were for Mrs Spring, whose hobby was shopping.
    It was money royally spent that flowed through this house like the Gulf Stream; warming the rooms, making the maids smile and the gardeners whistle, luring vans to the door. Victor treated money, not like a tyrant that must be alternately fawned upon and bullied, but as an old pal; he stood it drinks, so to speak, and it stood him more drinks in return. He had a way with it; it came to his whistle.
    His father had left him a valley in Kent filled up with soft-fruit beds and a factory for canning their produce, and this brought him a very handsome income; but Victor had used the Sunny Valley Brand as a mere jumping-off point. He had (to speak moderately) extended his interests. He was a rich man, and would be richer.
    Despite the lavishness of his establishment, he lived within his income and did not get into debt. Indeed, for such a rich young man, with such golden prospects of being so much richer, he lived rather modestly. His tastes were simple: he liked the best and plenty of it.
    Mrs Spring, daughter of a country-town doctor and a social rung or two above her late husband, had a more than comfortable income of her own, left to her by Mr Spring. Some of it went on beauty treatments. But they were useless; her skin knew that it was fifty-two years old and stretched over a body in ill-health, and it refused to look anything but ravaged. She dressed fashionably, without forgetting her age. Her delicacy of body made her often irritable, but in her heart she was content enough. She lived from moment to moment, unharried by imagination, enjoyed entertaining her many friends, was extremely fond of Victor and tried to be patient with her niece Hetty, but did not find this easy.
    She was breakfasting earlier than