Toilers of Babylon: A Novel. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold
glided to the window and raised the lower sash.
"Kingsley!" she whispered, musically, in reply.
"You are here, my darling! I have found you!"
"Hush! Speak softly, or you will awake my father. What a time to come! How good you are!"
"I received your letter and telegram, and could not rest What a hunt I have had for you! I must speak to you, Nansie. Can't you come out?"
"Not to-night, Kingsley; it is impossible. Oh, Kingsley, how happy you have made me!"
"What else do I live for? But I must speak to you, I say. I cannot wait."
"You must-till to-morrow morning. Listen to the nightingale. Is it not sweet?"
"To-morrow morning, you say. An eternity! How am I to be sure you will not disappear before then?"
"I shall be here, in the woods, at sunrise. Could I keep away, knowing you were waiting for me? There-you make me say foolish things!"
"Give me your hand, Nansie."
She put her hand out of the window; her white arm was partly bared by the loosened sleeve. He, standing on the spoke of the wheel, took her hand and kissed it, and then did not relinquish it.
"You are well, Nansie?"
"Yes, Kingsley."
"Quite well?"
"Quite well."
"And your father?"
"He is not well, I grieve to say."
"We will make him so, you and I. But what a freak-to live like this!"
"It is delightful."
"Without me?"
"I mean now that you are here. Good-night, Kingsley."
"A moment yet. I will wait till the nightingale has finished its song."
"You foolish Kingsley! It will sing for hours."
"Nansie, I have so much to tell you!"
"And I to tell you; but this is not the time. To-morrow at sunrise."
"Yes, to-morrow at sunrise." He kissed her hand again. "Nansie, my father has arrived home."
"At last!" There was a tremor of apprehension in her voice. "Have you seen him?"
"Not yet. But he has sent for me, and I am going to him after seeing you to-morrow."
"Where will you sleep, Kingsley?"
"I have a bed at Godalming; but I am in no humor for sleep."
"Be reasonable, Kingsley, if you love me." She leaned forward, raised his hand to her lips, and kissed it. "Now are you content?"
"I should be false to you if I were to say I am. There, I have given you back your hand. Are you content?"
"It is yours forever and ever. Good-night, my love!"
"Good-night, my heart! To-morrow at sunrise. Mind-not a moment later! Do not close the window yet."
He managed to pluck some daisies, and he threw them up at her. She caught them, and even in the dark she could distinguish the golden tufts within their silver crowns.
"Good-night, my love," she sighed again, pressing the flowers to her lips.
"Good-night, my heart!"
She listened to the last faint echo of his footfall, and then she sought her bed, and, smiling happily, fell asleep, with the daisies on her pillow.
CHAPTER III
Between midnight and sunrise a slight shower had fallen, scarcely damping the ground, but sufficient to draw out the perfume of the young flowers. The promise of spring was fulfilled, and tender bloom peeped up in places, and in others showed itself more boldly. About the trunks of ancient trees the sweet woodruff lurked; in sunny hedges the "cuckoo buds of yellow hue" proclaimed themselves; the heart-shaped leaves of the Irish shamrock were slowly unfolding; species of wild geranium and the strangely shaped orchises were abundant, the general commonwealth being represented by myriads of golden buttercups. Nansie and Kingsley stood near a great hawthorn, not yet in full bud, but already emitting a deliciously fine fragrance born of the light rain which had fallen during the night.
"Why, Nansie," Kingsley was saying to her, "I never suspected you had gypsy blood in you."
"I have none, as you know," was her response. "It was my father's whim, for which, I dare say, if he were here and was inclined to do so, he could give you several reasons. You can guess some of them, Kingsley."
"The first and foremost is that he wished to keep us apart. He has not succeeded. I would hunt you all over the world, Nansie."
"You must not be unjust to my father," said Nansie, "He was always full of fancies, Kingsley, but never harbored a bad one; and you must remember he does not know our secret yet. I love and honor him; he is a good man."
"Or you could not have been his daughter. Full of fancies, indeed!" And Kingsley turned his head in the direction of the caravan. "Surely this is the strangest that ever entered the head of man! A gentleman and a scholar-for he is both, Nansie, and I suppose it was partly through your breeding that I was drawn to you-to go wandering through the land with his daughter, as though they belonged to the lost tribes! But there is an odd pleasantry about it that tickles one, after all."
"You would enjoy it, Kingsley," said Nansie, with a delicious laugh, nestling close to him; "it has really been delightful."
"Ah, you said that last night, and I asked you, in surprise, how it could have been, without me?"
"And I did not have wit enough to answer you properly. Think of the hour! I was scarcely half awake. And Kingsley, having the fullest trust in you, which nothing ever can shake, you would not wish me to be unhappy even when we are parted. I can think of you in a happy mood when you are not with me, if only by looking forward to the time when we shall always be together. It will be soon, will it not?"
"It must, it shall, either way," he replied; "but I do not think I was wrong in asking you to wait a little while."
"You have done everything for the best, so far as I am concerned- But for yourself!" Nansie paused and sighed.
"But for myself," he said, taking up her words, "I have done that which is happiest and best, and that which falls to the lot of few men."
"Ah, Kingsley?" she said, hiding her face on his shoulder.
"I have won a faithful heart. What more could I desire?"
"It is sweet to hear you say so; but if your father should be angry-"
"What then? We are young and strong and willing, and shall be able to manage. I have friends who will give me a helping hand, as I would give them were our places changed. New men spring up every day, Nansie; the ladder is full of them, rising higher and higher. Why should I not be one of them? Why should I not be fortunate-in money, I mean; I am content with everything else-as my father was? When he was my age he had little more than I have. See what he is now. A power, mixing with those who bear historic names. And there are others as he is. The old ranks are widening, new men creep in, hold their heads high, and occupy positions of power and profit. The question will presently be, who are the masters? No, no, Nansie, I don't despair. I should not be worthy of you if I did. What ennobles a man? Rank? Hardly. He can prove himself worthy of it-that is all; then he may consider himself truly distinguished. Rank is mortal. Love is immortal. Ask the poets. Not that they know much better than any one else. After all, it is the heart that should be followed."
"I have followed mine," said Nansie, looking fondly at him.
She did not understand the drift of all he said, nor, indeed, did he himself, nor was he aware that his speech was of a wandering nature. He spoke enthusiastically, and sometimes he ran his fingers through his hair; and although he did this rather perplexedly, there was no indication in his manner of any want of confidence in himself or his opinions. When Nansie said she had followed her heart, he kissed her and said:
"And I