Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
Google Books: http://books.google.com/books?id=YwYwAAAAYAAJ
(Harvard University)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
TOILERS OF BABYLON
A Novel
BY
B. L. FARJEON
AUTHOR OF
"PERIL OF RICHARD PARDON" "GREAT PORTER SQUARE"
"AUNT PARKER" ETC.
_For life the prologue is to death
And love its sweetest flower
And death is as the spring of life
And love its richest dower_
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1889
B. L. FARJEON'S NOVELS.
* * *
AN ISLAND PEARL. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 30 cents.
AUNT PARLER. 4to, Paper, 20 cents.
CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 12mo, Paper, 25 cents.
GOLDEN GRAIN. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents.
GREAT PORTER SQUARE. 4to, Paper, 20 cents.
JESSIE TRIM. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents.
JOSHUA MARVEL. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents.
LOVE'S HARVEST. 4to, Paper, 20 cents.
LOVE'S VICTORY. 8vo, Paper, 20 cents.
MISER FAREBROTHER. Illustrated. 4to, Paper, 25 cents.
SELF-DOOMED. 12mo, Paper, 25 cts.
SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 30 cents.
THE BELLS OF PENRAVEN. 4to, Paper, 10 cents.
THE BRIGHT STAR OF LIFE. 12mo, Paper, 25 cents.
THE DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents.
THE KING OF NO-LAND. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents.
THE NINE OF HEARTS. 12mo, Paper, 25 cents.
THE PERIL OF RICHARD PARDON. Ill'd. 8vo, Paper, 30 cents.
THE SACRED NUGGET. 12mo, Paper, 25 cents.
TOILERS OF BABYLON. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents.
* * * *
Published By HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
==>_Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to
any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the
price_.
TOILERS OF BABYLON.
* * * * * *
CHAPTER I.
The horse was very old, the caravan very dilapidated. As it was
dragged slowly along the country roads it shook and creaked and
wheezed, protesting, as it were, that it had performed its duty in
life and that its long labors justly entitled it to permanent repose.
The horse, with its burden behind it, had long ago given over
complaining, and, although its plight was no less woful, was
demonstrative only through physical compulsion. With drooping head,
lustreless eyes, and laboring breath, it plodded on, with many a
longing look at tempting morsels out of its reach.
At the present moment it was at rest, released from the shafts, and
partaking of a spare meal, humanly provided, eking it out with sweet
tid-bits, not too abundant, munched from the fragrant earth. Sitting
on the ground at the back of the caravan was a man with a book in his
hand, which sometimes he read with the air of one who was in the
company of an old and beloved friend; at other times he gazed around
with pensive delight upon the beauties of nature, which in no part of
the world find more exquisite representation than in the county of
Surrey. In the rear of the caravan were lovely stretches of woodland,
through vistas of which visions of cathedral aisles could be seen by
the poetical eye. Across the narrow road was a scene which brought to
the man's mind some lines in the book he held. Turning over its pages,
he called out, in a voice not strong, but clear:
"William Browne might have camped on this very spot, Nansie, and drawn
its picture. The resemblance is wonderful." Then he read from the
book:
"'Here the curious cutting of a hedge,
There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge;
Here the fine setting of well-shading trees,
The walks there mounting up by small degrees;
The gravel and the green so equal lie,
They, with the rest, drawing on your lingering eye.
Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air,
Arising from the infinite repair
Of odoriferous buds; and herbs of price,
As if it were another paradise,
So please the smelling sense that you are fain,
Where you last walked, to turn and walk again.
There the small birds with their harmonious notes
Sing to a spring that smileth as it floats.'"
A practical flight of wooden steps at the back of the caravan afforded
means of getting in and out, and when the man began to speak aloud a
young woman issued from the interior of the conveyance, and stood upon
the top of the little ladder, listening to his words.
"It is very beautiful, father," she said. "To think that it was
written nearly three hundred years ago!"
"Yes, Nansie, in the days of Shakespeare; and it might be to-day. That
is the marvel of it."
He fell to his book again, and Nansie, who held a teapot in her hand,
beat a retreat and resumed her domestic duties.
A peculiar feature of the caravan was that it was commercially empty.
In times gone by it had been used for trading and speculative
purposes, by gypsies, by enterprising travellers, by venders of
basketware, by dealers in birds. It had served as mart and
dwelling-house, and had played its part in numberless fairs when they
were in fashion. Now it contained nothing marketable, and bore about
it no sign to denote that its denizens were travelling for profit; but
that, even in its old age, it was being put to pleasant use was proved
by the smoke curling from the little chimney projecting through the
roof.
In due time Nansie reappeared, bearing two loose boards which she laid
upon a pair of low trestles, spreading over them a white cloth. Upon
this improvised table she set a smoking teapot, milk and sugar, and a
plate of bread-and-butter, cut reasonably thick.
"Tea is ready, father."
She ate with an appetite. Her father ate more daintily. Before putting
the food into his mouth he cut it into devices of fish and bird, which
he then proceeded to slice and carve, evidently adding thereby to his
enjoyment of the humble fare. And yet through all, whether he ate or
read or mused, there was about him a conspicuous air of melancholy.
It was the evening hour, and the season was spring. It was a warmer
spring than usual; there was a taste of summer in the air. They ate in
silence, until the man remarked:
"You did not hear the nightingale last night?"
"No, father."
"It sang for hours, Nansie."
She nodded, and said: "I wish you could sleep as soundly as I do,
father."
"I used to in my young days, and must be content. I am glad you sleep
well. You have other wishes."
"Yes," said Nansie, calmly.
"You have a fine trick of composure, Nansie. What stirs within does
not always find outward expression."
"I take after you, father," said Nansie, in an affectionate tone. "I
have you to thank for all that is good in me."
"It is a pleasant hearing, but it cuts both ways. Do not your other
wishes trouble you?"
"A little; but everything will come right."
"A comfortable philosophy, my dear child; but womanly."
"It was mother's," said Nansie. "I caught it from her."
"I know; and I could never make the dear mother understand that it was
inadequate for the practical purposes of life. Eventually we may be
satisfied that everything will come right, but before the end is
reached there are many turnings. The mischief of it is"--and there was
now in his face as he turned it more fully towards her an expression
both whimsical and sad--"that we carpet the turning we wish to take
with flowers of fancy which, as we proceed, fade utterly away. That is
a human experience."
"I am human," said Nansie, and she pressed her young face to his.
"I could laugh and I could weep," he said, responding fondly to her
caress. "In truth, my dear child, you perplex me."
"Or," suggested Nansie, "is it you who are perplexing yourself?"
He shrugged his shoulders affectionately, and did not reply.
The young woman was fair and beautiful. Though cast in a delicate
mould, she was strong and redolent of health. Her face was slightly
browned, and harmonized with her brown hair and brown eyes, the light
in which was bright and tender. The man looked old, but was barely
forty-five, and on his face were signs of suffering, patiently borne.
They were dressed like persons in humble life, but with a certain
refinement, observable more in the woman than in the man. For five
evenings they had tarried on this spot. Each morning they had
harnessed the horse to the caravan, and had journeyed slowly and
aimlessly onward till noon, and then had turned back towards their
camping-ground, which lay in the shadow of the beautiful Surrey woods,
at a sufficient distance from the narrow road to escape casual
observation. The right of doing so probably did not belong to the
wayfarers, and this had disturbed the man somewhat, but he had fixed
upon the spot for a particular purpose, and up to this evening had not
been interfered with.
"At what hour last night," said Nansie, presently, "did you hear the
nightingale?"
"It must have been near midnight," replied her father. "At the same
time to-night it will sing again. Have you finished your tea?"
"Yes, father."
"Then go again to the post-office, and see if there is a letter for
me. I am growing anxious at not receiving one. You need not stop to
clear these things; I will put them away."
She rose and stood for a moment with her hand resting lightly on his
shoulder. He drew her face down to his, and kissed her. With a bright
nod she left him, carrying with her a written order authorizing the
delivery of any letters which might be lying in the post-office for
her father.
Godalming, the town for which she was bound, was within a mile, and
she stepped out briskly. But when she was about midway, and no one was
in sight, she made a little detour into the woods, and drew from her
bosom a picture. It was the portrait of a young man, and she gazed
fondly at it, and kissed it as fondly. Then she drew forth a letter,
and read it and pressed it to her lips; after which she replaced the
letter and the portrait, and proceeded on her errand. Her thoughts may
be thus fashioned into words:
"I wrote to him yesterday, and I sent him a telegram in the evening,
knowing we should be here to-day. He may be absent. I hope not; I hope
he has received both. Will he write, or will he come? Will he be angry
that I have accompanied my father? At all events he knows, and he is
never unjust. Ah! if he were here with us, how happy I should be! I
love him, I love him, I love him!"
She blew a kiss into the air.
In less than half an hour she was in the Godalming post-office, making
her inquiry.
"Mr. James Loveday," said the female clerk, looking at the order
handed to her by Nansie--she was familiar with it, having seen it on
each of the three previous days. "Yes, there is, I think."
She sorted some letters and handed one to Nansie, who, after
hesitating a little, asked:
"Is there a letter for Miss Loveday?
"Are you Miss Loveday?"
"Yes."
"No, there are none."
"Or for Miss Nansie Loveday? N-a-n-s-i-e."
"That's a curious way to spell Nancy," said the clerk. "No, there
are none."
Nansie lingered.
"Or for Manners?" she asked, with singular timidity and bashfulness.
"Mrs. or Miss?" inquired the clerk.
Nansie's face and neck were scarlet as she replied: "Mrs."
"None for that name," said the clerk.
She lingered still, and said, with a kind of pathetic imploring:
"Would a telegram be received here if addressed to the post-office
till called for?"
"Yes."
"I sent one yesterday, and expected an answer. Is there any for either
name?"
"No."
"Thank you," said Nansie, and walked out of the office, and set her
face towards the caravan.
The female clerk looked after her sympathizingly. There was a love
note in her voice, and the post-office girl had a little sweethearting
of her own on hand.