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.Table of Contents |
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| 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.
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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