Toilers of Babylon. B. L. Farjeon
"Yes, Nansie."
"In a kindly spirit?"
"Yes, I am thankful to say."
"This is good. Is my uncle married?"
"No. In our last interview he vowed that he would never marry, and I doubt whether he would ever have yielded to the sentiment of love had his heart been again that way inclined. I deeply regret it. Life without love is at best a barren affair."
With a sweet look Nansie raised her dewy eyes to his. He divined what, in the darkness, he could not clearly see.
"It must be an honorable, honest, earnest love, child. You understand that?"
"I understand it, father."
"We will renew the subject another time. I am tired, and night has fallen. It is almost like summer--the sweetest spring in my remembrance. There is a fascination in shadows--spiritual suggestions and possibilities which cannot occur to the mind in sunlight. The night is dark and beautiful:
"'And silence girt the wood. No warbling tongue
Talked to the echo,
And all the upper world lay in a trance.'
"Life is a dream, dear child. May yours be a happy one!"
Then they did not speak for many minutes, and then it was Nansie's voice that was first heard.
"What did you say to my uncle in the letter you wrote to him, father?"
"I spoke to him of my illness, and of you. When your mother died I wrote informing him; but he took no notice of my letter. This time I appealed to him. I said, if anything happened to me you would be without a home. His answer is that you can find a home with him. My mind is greatly relieved. Now, my dear child, we will retire."
"I will see to the beds, father. I shall not be long."
She ascended the little flight of wooden steps, and the next moment a light from within the caravan was shining through one of the windows. This delightfully primitive dwelling-house contained three rooms or compartments. One was the kitchen, where the meals were cooked, and, in bad weather, partaken of. The other two were the sleeping-apartments of Nansie and her father. In each of these bedrooms was a window with a double sash, opening up and down.
The beds were soon ready, and then Nansie called her father. He ascended the steps, and, pulling them up after him, made them fast. Father and daughter were thus in a stronghold, as it were, safe from invasion. Before entering the castle Mr. Loveday had seen that the old horse was safe, and had tethered it by a rope to one of the wheels. Then, kissing Nansie with much tenderness, he retired to rest. He slept in the back room, Nansie in the front, and the only means of ingress and egress was the back door in Mr. Loveday's bedroom. Thus he served as a kind of watch-dog to his daughter. She, partly disrobing, sat awhile by the open window, looking out upon the shadows. She had much to think of--her father's illness, their worldly circumstances, her absent lover; but her mind was as healthy as her body, and she looked upon all things hopefully. She did not muse long; finishing her preparations for bed, she closed the windows, and slid between the sheets. She slept for an hour, and awoke; slept again for a little while, and again awoke. This was not her usual habit; as a rule she could sleep seven or eight hours at a stretch. Perhaps she was listening for the nightingale's song. It came, and she listened in delight to the bird of love calling for its mate; and as she lay awake another sound reached her ears, as of a heavy body moving softly outside. It was not the old horse. What could it be? She slipped out of bed, and listened at the door which led from her room to her father's. She heard his soft breathing; he seemed to be peacefully sleeping. Presently, as she stood in darkness, she heard a whispering voice which caused her heart to throb wild with joy.
"Nansie!"
She 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