The twilight was earlier than usual on that October evening, and night came up with a great threatening cloud like the outspread wing of a bad angel. Mrs. Barbara Layburne stood at the hall-door watching that lowering sky, and listening to the sough of the south-west wind, and thinking of that night just thirteen years ago--that night of tempest and gloom upon which she had first seen yonder elms and oaks in all their garnered might of foregone centuries, standing stern and strong against the threatening wrack. She thought of her life as it had been before that night, of her life as it had been since. "Would anybody in London--those who knew me in my glory--believe that I would endure such a long slow martyrdom, a death in life?" she asked herself. "Well, perhaps they would believe, if they could fathom my motive." The sound of footsteps startled her. Peering into the darkness of the long avenue, she saw a lad running under the trees, sheltering himself as best he might from the driving rain. She watched him as he came towards the house, and hailed him as he drew near. He was the son of the old gardener who lived at the lodge. "What is the matter?" she asked. "There is a man at the lodge very ill--dying, mother thinks--and he sent this for you, ma'am, and I was to give it into your own hands." He handed her a scrap of paper, folded but not sealed. It was scrawled over in pencil, with a tremulous hand. "Come to me at once, if you want to see me alive.--RODERICK." That was all. "Is he tall, with dark eyes and hair?" she asked. "Yes. You'd better come at once if you know anything about him. He's mortal bad. And mother said you'd best bring some brandy." Barbara Layburne went hastily to the store-room, where everything was kept sternly under lock and key. Half the business of her life was to unlock and lock those presses and store-closets, doling out everything to the submissive cook, who still contrived somehow to have her pinch out of this and that. Barbara filled a small bottle with brandy, fetched her cloak and hood, and then went back to the hall, where the boy was waiting. She went along the avenue, muffled in her gray cloth cloak, a ghostlike figure, the boy following her as fast as his legs would carry him. He declared afterwards that he had never seen any one walk so fast as Mrs. Layburne walked that stormy night, though the wind and rain were beating against her face and figure all the way. There was a light burning dimly in the lodge as they drew near. The door was open, and the old gardener was standing on the threshold watching for them. "Is he--dead?" gasped Barbara. "No; but his breath is short and thick, just as if he was near his end, poor wretch. He ain't anybody belonging to _you_, is he, madam?" "Not he," answered Barbara promptly; "but I know something about him. He's the son of an old servant who lived with me in my prosperous days. Where is he?"