The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 21Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 21
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
Presently the heavy foot of her uncle Jonathan was heard upon the stair,
and as he entered the room she bent the closer to her work. He glanced
at the green fagots with a sneer, and looked askance at the bed and the
white sheets, at the strip of carpet laid, like an island, on the great
expanse of the stone floor, and at the broken glazing of the casement
clumsily repaired with paper.
"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 of 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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