Toilers of Babylon. B. L. Farjeon
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.
CHAPTER II.
Nansie walked on, turning the letter in her hand, and glancing at it occasionally. The writing was strange to her, and on the envelope was the London post-mark. When, at the end of twenty minutes, she stood by her father's side, he was asleep.
"Father!" she said, bending over him.
He opened his eyes instantly, and smiled at her.
"Ah, Nansie, it is you. I drop off constantly now, on the smallest provocation from silence or solitude. But it can scarcely be called sleep; I am conscious of all that is going on around me." He observed the letter in her hand, and he said, eagerly, "You have one!" and took it from her. "Yes, it is from my brother Joseph; I was beginning to fear that he was dead."
He opened the letter and read it, and then remained a little while in thought. Presently he resumed the conversation.
"You saw your uncle once, Nansie. Have you a recollection of him?"
"Hardly any, father. How old could I have been when mother took me to see him? Not more than four or five, I think. I had a white dress and a blue sash, and I took him a bunch of flowers. He gave me some sweetmeats, I remember, and a shilling. But I have no recollection of his face. He lived in London, in a street off Whitechapel; that I know."
"He lives there now. Your mother never spoke to you of him?"
"Never."
"You should be made acquainted with the story, Nansie, while I am here to relate it."
She stopped the current of his speech.
"Father, these last three or four weeks you have dropped hints which make me very anxious; they weigh heavily upon me. I know you are not well, but you harp upon it as if it were a serious illness. Tell me, father."
They were sitting side by side now, and he was smoothing her hair with his hand.
"I am far from well, Nansie."
She interrupted him again, and now spoke with tremulous impetuosity.
"You should take advice, father. You should go to a doctor."