Shirley

darkness – and knocked at the door. A fresh-faced servant opened it; by the candle she held was revealed a narrow passage, terminating in a narrow stair. Two doors covered with crimson baize, a strip of crimson carpet down the steps, contrasted with light-coloured walls and white floor, made the little interior look clean and fresh.
    »Mr. Moore is at home, I suppose?«
    »Yes, sir, but he is not in.«
    »Not in! Where is he then?«
    »At the mill – in the counting-house.«
    Here one of the crimson doors opened.
    »Are the waggons come, Sarah?« asked a female voice, and a female head at the same time was apparent. It might not be the head of a goddess – indeed a screw of curl-paper on each side the temples quite forbade that supposition – but neither was it the head of a Gorgon; yet Malone seemed to take it in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrank bashfully back into the rain at the view thereof; and saying, »I'll go to him,« hurried in seeming trepidation down a short lane, across an obscure yard, towards a huge black mill.
    The work-hours were over; the ›hands‹ were gone; the machinery was at rest; the mill shut up. Malone walked round it; somewhere in its great sooty flank he found another chink of light; he knocked at another door, using for the purpose the thick end of his shillelagh, with which he beat a rousing tattoo. A key turned; the door unclosed.
    »Is it Joe Scott? What news of the waggons, Joe?«
    »No, – it's myself. Mr. Helstone would send me.«
    »Oh! Mr. Malone.« The voice in uttering this name had the slightest possible cadence of disappointment. After a moment's pause, it continued, politely, but a little formally: –
    »I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone. I regret extremely Mr. Helstone should have thought it necessary to trouble you so far; there was no necessity: – I told him so; – and on such a night – but walk forwards.«
    Through a dark apartment, of aspect undistinguishable, Malone followed the speaker into a light and bright room within; very light and bright indeed it seemed to eyes which for the last hour had been striving to penetrate the double darkness of night and fog; but except for its excellent fire, and for a lamp of elegant design and vivid lustre burning on a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor was carpetless; the three or four stiff-backed green-painted chairs seemed once to have furnished the kitchen of some farm-house; a desk of strong, solid formation, the table aforesaid, and some framed sheets on the stone-coloured walls, bearing plans for building, for gardening, designs of machinery, etc., completed the furniture of the place.
    Plain as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malone; who, when he had removed and hung up his wet surtout and hat, drew one of the rheumatic-looking chairs to the hearth, and set his knees almost within the bars of the red grate.
    »Comfortable quarters you have here, Mr. Moore; and all snug to yourself.«
    »Yes; but my sister would be glad to see you, if you would prefer stepping into the house.«
    »Oh, no! the ladies are best alone. I never was a lady's man. You don't mistake me for my friend Sweeting, do you, Mr. Moore?«
    »Sweeting! – which of them is that? The gentleman in the chocolate over-coat, or the little gentleman?«
    »The little one; – he of Nunnely; – the cavalier of the Misses Sykes, with the whole six of whom he is in love, ha! ha!«
    »Better be generally in love with all than specially with one, I should think, in that quarter.«
    »But he
is
specially in love with one besides, for when I and Donne urged him to make a choice amongst the fair bevy, he named – which do you think?«
    With a queer, quiet smile, Mr. Moore replied, »Dora, of course, or Harriet.«
    »Ha! ha! you've an excellent guess; but what made you hit on those two?«
    »Because they are the tallest, the handsomest; and Dora, at least, is the stoutest; and as your friend, Mr. Sweeting, is but a little, slight figure, I concluded that, according to a frequent rule in such cases, he preferred his contrast.«
    »You are right; Dora it is: but he has no chance, has he, Moore?«
    »What has Mr. Sweeting, besides his curacy?«
    This question seemed to tickle Malone amazingly; he laughed for full three minutes before he answered it.
    »What has Sweeting? Why David has his harp, or flute, which comes to the same thing. He has a sort of pinchbeck watch; ditto, ring; ditto, eyeglass: that's what he has.«
    »How would he