Lay Morals, and Other PapersStevenson, Robert Louis
Philosophy
Lay Morals, and Other Papers
Stevenson, Robert Louis
Essays; Short stories
‘Leave that fire a-be,’ he cried. ‘What, have I toiled all my life to
turn innkeeper at the hind end? Leave it a-be, I say.’
‘La, uncle, it doesn’t burn a bit; it only smokes,’ said Nance, looking
up from her position.
‘You are come of decent people on both sides,’ returned the old man.
‘Who are you to blow the coals for any Robin-run-agate? Get up, get on
your hood, make yourself useful, and be off to the “Green Dragon.”’
‘I thought you was to go yourself,’ Nance faltered.
‘So did I,’ quoth Jonathan; ‘but it appears I was mistook.’
The very excess of her eagerness alarmed her, and she began to hang back.
‘I think I would rather not, dear uncle,’ she said. ‘Night is at hand,
and I think, dear, I would rather not.’
‘Now you look here,’ replied Jonathan, ‘I have my lord’s orders, have I
not? Little he gives me, but it’s all my livelihood. And do you fancy,
if I disobey my lord, I’m likely to turn round for a lass like you? No,
I’ve that hell-fire of pain in my old knee, I wouldn’t walk a mile, not
for King George upon his bended knees.’ And he walked to the window and
looked down the steep scarp to where the river foamed in the bottom of
the dell.
Nance stayed for no more bidding. In her own room, by the glimmer of the
twilight, she washed her hands and pulled on her Sunday mittens; adjusted
her black hood, and tied a dozen times its cherry ribbons; and in less
than ten minutes, with a fluttering heart and excellently bright eyes,
she passed forth under the arch and over the bridge, into the thickening
shadows of the groves. A well-marked wheel-track conducted her. The
wood, which upon both sides of the river dell was a mere scrambling
thicket of hazel, hawthorn, and holly, boasted on the level of more
considerable timber. Beeches came to a good growth, with here and there
an oak; and the track now passed under a high arcade of branches, and now
ran under the open sky in glades. As the girl proceeded these glades
became more frequent, the trees began again to decline in size, and the
wood to degenerate into furzy coverts. Last of all there was a fringe of
elders; and beyond that the track came forth upon an open, rolling
moorland, dotted with wind-bowed and scanty bushes, and all golden brown
with the winter, like a grouse. Right over against the girl the last red
embers of the sunset burned under horizontal clouds; the night fell clear
and still and frosty, and the track in low and marshy passages began to
crackle under foot with ice.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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