CHAPTER II. THE WAGONS.

Theeveningwaspitchdark:starandmoonwerequenchedingrayrain-clouds—graytheywouldhavebeenbydaybynighttheylookedsable.Malonewasnotamangiventocloseobservationofnatureherchangespassed,forthemostpart,unnoticedbyhim.HecouldwalkmilesonthemostvaryingAprildayandneverseethebeautifuldallyingofearthandheaven—nevermarkwhenasunbeamkissedthehill-tops,makingthemsmileclearingreenlight,orwhenashowerweptoverthem,hidingtheircrestswiththelow-hanging,dishevelledtressesofacloud.Hedidnot,therefore,caretocontrasttheskyasitnowappeared—amuffled,streamingvault,allblack,savewhere,towardstheeast,thefurnacesofStilbro'ironworksthrewatremulousluridshimmeronthehorizon—withthesameskyonanuncloudedfrostynight.Hedidnottroublehimselftoaskwheretheconstellationsandtheplanetsweregone,ortoregretthe"black-blue"serenityoftheair-oceanwhichthosewhiteisletsstud,andwhichanotherocean,ofheavieranddenserelement,nowrolledbelowandconcealed.Hejustdoggedlypursuedhisway,leaningalittleforwardashewalked,andwearinghishatonthebackofhishead,ashisIrishmannerwas."Tramp,tramp,"hewentalongthecauseway,wheretheroadboastedtheprivilegeofsuchanaccommodation"splash,splash,"throughthemire-filledcartruts,wheretheflagswereexchangedforsoftmud.Helookedbutforcertainlandmarks—thespireofBriarfieldChurchfartheron,thelightsofRedhouse.Thiswasaninnandwhenhereachedit,theglowofafirethroughahalf-curtainedwindow,avisionofglassesonaroundtable,andofrevellersonanoakensettle,hadnearlydrawnasidethecuratefromhiscourse.Hethoughtlonginglyofatumblerofwhisky-and-water.InastrangeplacehewouldinstantlyhaverealizedthedreambutthecompanyassembledinthatkitchenwereMr.Helstone'sownparishionerstheyallknewhim.Hesighed,andpassedon. Thehighroadwasnowtobequitted,astheremainingdistancetoHollow'sMillmightbeconsiderablyreducedbyashortcutacrossfields.Thesefieldswerelevelandmonotonous.Malonetookadirectcoursethroughthem,jumpinghedgeandwall.Hepassedbutonebuildinghere,andthatseemedlargeandhall-like,thoughirregular.Youcouldseeahighgable,thenalongfront,thenalowgable,thenathick,loftystackofchimneys.Thereweresometreesbehindit.Itwasdarknotacandleshonefromanywindow.Itwasabsolutelystilltherainrunningfromtheeaves,andtheratherwildbutverylowwhistleofthewindroundthechimneysandthroughtheboughswerethesolesoundsinitsneighbourhood. Thisbuildingpassed,thefields,hithertoflat,declinedinarapiddescent.Evidentlyavalelaybelow,throughwhichyoucouldhearthewaterrun.Onelightglimmeredinthedepth.ForthatbeaconMalonesteered. Hecametoalittlewhitehouse—youcouldseeitwaswhiteeventhroughthisdensedarkness—andknockedatthedoor.Afresh-facedservantopenedit.Bythecandlesheheldwasrevealedanarrowpassage,terminatinginanarrowstair.Twodoorscoveredwithcrimsonbaize,astripofcrimsoncarpetdownthesteps,contrastedwithlight-colouredwallsandwhitefloor,madethelittleinteriorlookcleanandfresh. "Mr.Mooreisathome,Isuppose?" "Yes,sir,butheisnotin." "Notin!Whereishethen?" "Atthemill—inthecounting-house." Hereoneofthecrimsondoorsopened. "Arethewagonscome,Sarah?"askedafemalevoice,andafemaleheadatthesametimewasapparent.Itmightnotbetheheadofagoddess—indeedascrewofcurl-paperoneachsidethetemplesquiteforbadethatsupposition—butneitherwasittheheadofaGorgonyetMaloneseemedtotakeitinthelatterlight.Bigashewas,heshrankbashfullybackintotherainattheviewthereof,andsaying,"I'llgotohim,"hurriedinseemingtrepidationdownashortlane,acrossanobscureyard,towardsahugeblackmill. Thework-hourswereoverthe"hands"weregone.Themachinerywasatrest,themillshutup.Malonewalkedroundit.Somewhereinitsgreatsootyflankhefoundanotherchinkoflightheknockedatanotherdoor,usingforthepurposethethickendofhisshillelah,withwhichhebeatarousingtattoo.Akeyturnedthedoorunclosed. "IsitJoeScott?Whatnewsofthewagons,Joe?" "Noit'smyself.Mr.Helstonewouldsendme." "Oh!Mr.Malone."Thevoiceinutteringthisnamehadtheslightestpossiblecadenceofdisappointment.Afteramoment'spauseitcontinued,politelybutalittleformally,— "Ibegyouwillcomein,Mr.Malone.IregretextremelyMr.Helstoneshouldhavethoughtitnecessarytotroubleyousofar.Therewasnonecessity—Itoldhimso—andonsuchanightbutwalkforwards." Throughadarkapartment,ofaspectundistinguishable,Malonefollowedthespeakerintoalightandbrightroomwithin—verylightandbrightindeeditseemedtoeyeswhich,forthelasthour,hadbeenstrivingtopenetratethedoubledarknessofnightandfogbutexceptforitsexcellentfire,andforalampofelegantdesignandvividlustreburningonatable,itwasaveryplainplace.Theboardedfloorwascarpetlessthethreeorfourstiff-backed,green-paintedchairsseemedoncetohavefurnishedthekitchenofsomefarm-houseadeskofstrong,solidformation,thetableaforesaid,andsomeframedsheetsonthestone-colouredwalls,bearingplansforbuilding,forgardening,designsofmachinery,etc.,completedthefurnitureoftheplace. Plainasitwas,itseemedtosatisfyMalone,who,whenhehadremovedandhunguphiswetsurtoutandhat,drewoneoftherheumatic-lookingchairstothehearth,andsethiskneesalmostwithinthebarsoftheredgrate. "Comfortablequartersyouhavehere,Mr.Mooreandallsnugtoyourself." "Yes,butmysisterwouldbegladtoseeyou,ifyouwouldprefersteppingintothehouse." "Ohno!Theladiesarebestalone,Ineverwasalady'sman.Youdon'tmistakemeformyfriendSweeting,doyou,Mr.Moore?" "Sweeting!Whichofthemisthat?Thegentlemaninthechocolateovercoat,orthelittlegentleman?" "Thelittleone—heofNunnelythecavalieroftheMissesSykes,withthewholesixofwhomheisinlove,ha!ha!" "Betterbegenerallyinlovewithallthanspeciallywithone,Ishouldthink,inthatquarter." "Butheisspeciallyinlovewithonebesides,forwhenIandDonneurgedhimtomakeachoiceamongstthefairbevy,henamed—whichdoyouthink?" Withaqueer,quietsmileMr.Moorereplied,"Dora,ofcourse,orHarriet." "Ha!ha!you'veanexcellentgues