The Merry Men, and Other Tales and FablesStevenson, Robert Louis
History
The Merry Men, and Other Tales and Fables
Stevenson, Robert Louis
Boys -- Fiction; Great Britain -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction; Paranormal fiction; Treasure troves -- Fiction
The season was still so early that Will’s customers were few and far
between; but the lilacs were already flowering, and the weather was so
mild that the party took dinner under the trellice, with the noise of
the river in their ears and the woods ringing about them with the songs
of birds. Will soon began to take a particular pleasure in these
dinners. The parson was rather a dull companion, with a habit of dozing
at table; but nothing rude or cruel ever fell from his lips. And as for
the parson’s daughter, she suited her surroundings with the best grace
imaginable; and whatever she said seemed so pat and pretty that Will
conceived a great idea of her talents. He could see her face, as she
leaned forward, against a background of rising pinewoods; her eyes
shone peaceably; the light lay around her hair like a kerchief;
something that was hardly a smile rippled her pale cheeks, and Will
could not contain himself from gazing on her in an agreeable dismay.
She looked, even in her quietest moments, so complete in herself, and
so quick with life down to her finger tips and the very skirts of her
dress, that the remainder of created things became no more than a blot
by comparison; and if Will glanced away from her to her surroundings,
the trees looked inanimate and senseless, the clouds hung in heaven
like dead things, and even the mountain tops were disenchanted. The
whole valley could not compare in looks with this one girl.
Will was always observant in the society of his fellow-creatures; but
his observation became almost painfully eager in the case of Marjory.
He listened to all she uttered, and read her eyes, at the same time,
for the unspoken commentary. Many kind, simple, and sincere speeches
found an echo in his heart. He became conscious of a soul beautifully
poised upon itself, nothing doubting, nothing desiring, clothed in
peace. It was not possible to separate her thoughts from her
appearance. The turn of her wrist, the still sound of her voice, the
light in her eyes, the lines of her body, fell in tune with her grave
and gentle words, like the accompaniment that sustains and harmonises
the voice of the singer. Her influence was one thing, not to be divided
or discussed, only to be felt with gratitude and joy. To Will, her
presence recalled something of his childhood, and the thought of her
took its place in his mind beside that of dawn, of running water, and
of the earliest violets and lilacs. It is the property of things seen
for the first time, or for the first time after long, like the flowers
in spring, to reawaken in us the sharp edge of sense and that
impression of mystic strangeness which otherwise passes out of life
with the coming of years; but the sight of a loved face is what renews
a man’s character from the fountain upwards.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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