Miss Farringall was now erect. "What was his father's name?—his mother lives alone, he told me. Ask him what was his father's name—this minute, hear."
Barlow was back in even less time than before. "Simmons," he said solemnly; "it seems his father's name was Simmons too, mum."
His mistress advanced a step or two towards him; the faithful Barlow bowed his head like one ready to be offered. "Go back," she said in a low tense tone, "go back and ask him what his father's first name was. I want to know. And if you blunder this time, sir, you'll walk out of my house, mind."
"Yes, mum," agreed the man, lifting his eyes devotedly as he spoke, and vanishing into the outer gloom.
"Edward, mum," he informed her in a moment, "Edward Simmons—and he says what might you want to know for, mum."
A wave of indescribable emotion swept over the woman's face. She walked slowly to the window, gazing blindly out at the encroaching shadows of the autumn night. She saw the lurid sky beyond the city's utmost fringe, still crimson with the gilding of a departed sun, touched with the colour that was fading fast; even as she looked, the once radiant clouds were turning cold and gray, the ashen hue of age displacing the splendour of their transient joy. And the withered leaves, contemptuously tossed by the rising wind, moaned about the knees of many a heartless tree that had once flaunted them so proudly, whispering the story of their beauty to both earth and sky. But the silent gazer saw little of the autumn scene. For the grave and tender eyes were fixed on something far beyond it, far behind, nestling in the bosom of departed years; and what they saw was blighted with no decay of autumn, but stood fresh and beautiful in the light of summer. Green fields they saw, and tender bud and opening blossom everywhere, the very clouds beautiful in noble gloom because of the unconquerable sun. And that sun was Love—and the face she saw amid it all was the face of Edward Simmons.
Her eyes suddenly seemed to withdraw themselves from the scene without, turning wistfully upon the picture she still held in her hand. Only a moment did they linger there before they were turned again upon the autumn world without. And lo! The blackness of it all, its loneliness, all the pathos of the withered summer, seemed now to rise up before the woman's creative gaze; the sky, with its mystic tragedy as the glow surrendered to the gloom, the unbannered trees, the hurrying, homeless leaves, the dirge of the mournful wind—all these were deepened and darkened by that other vision of summer gladness that now was past and gone. For there is no mmistrant to sorrow like the sweet face of some dead happiness; it is June that gives November all its bitterness.
Long musing, she turned at last from the window, again summoning the faithful servant.
"Barlow," she said, the tone quite low, "go to the vault—look in that lower left-hand drawer and bring me a parcel of papers there. They're only newspapers," she added, "all tied together; bring them here."
A few minutes later Barlow handed her the parcel. "Shall I light the gas, mum?" he asked, turning at the door.