He crept softly out of the room to call the dog in, fearful lest he might disturb the solemn watch in the chamber of death. “Quiet, old doggie,” he said, stooping down to pat the hound, all wet and mud-covered as he was. But what is this! What is it makes the young man start and tremble, and his lips and cheeks turn pale? What is it brings that look of horror into his face, and makes his eyes distend and his nostrils quiver? What is this hanging in shreds between the dog’s firmly-set teeth? What is it? Only a few tattered remnants of dark-blue silk!
VII
Mrs. Warden passed away before midnight; only the doctor and her husband were with her at the last moment, for Hardcastle, bareheaded and trembling with excitement, had followed the hound out into the dark night.
“Find, Presto, find,” he exclaimed, urging the dog forward. But Presto needed no urging, he bounded rather than ran over the sodden grass and under the dripping trees; no stars, no moon, no light anywhere, and Hardcastle, breathless and stumbling, with difficulty kept up with the eager hound, who turns neither to the right nor to the left, but makes straight for the deep rushing stream, straight on to the low, sloping bank; and there the dog stops and trembles.
“Which way, Presto? Forward, forward!” shouts Hardcastle. But the dog will not stir a step now, and stands quivering on the brink of the stream; Hardcastle mounts the bank after him, and, bending forward, looks up and down the river. Not a sound save the rush and whirl of the waters, the moaning of the wind in the dark trees, and the pitiless splash, splash of the rain. Not a sign of life nor death in the flood, but as he turns to descend the slippery bank, something lying in the roots of an overhanging willow tree catches his eye. One arm clinging to a low bough, one arm in the cold, dark waters, and in another instant he holds in his hand a girl’s low-crowned felt hat, with pale-blue ostrich feather. “My God! and is this the end?” He cries out in the bitterness of his heart, then, feeling how utterly useless and helpless he is alone and single-handed in the dark, he rushes back to the house.
“I want men, I want lights,” he calls in a hoarse voice; “quickly, in Heaven’s name, down to the stream!” Down to the stream they follow him, with lights, and ropes, and drags. No time is lost in setting to work; lanterns are swung on ropes across the river, the men, with Hardcastle at their head, are wading through the swollen waters—hand in hand, throwing ropes, dragging, shouting, lest some poor soul might still be struggling in the dark flood.
What does it matter? There she lies, face downwards, among the reeds and tall rushes in the river’s mud. What does it matter! The men may shout—the waters rush—aye, and her warm, truehearted lover kneel by her side, and call her by her sweet name, never more will those dark eyes open to the light of day, nor those red lips be unsealed to tell their story of sorrow and wrong! Clasp her tight, and clasp her long, Lord Hardcastle, then yield her up forever to the shadows, the doubt, the darkness of the grave.
They brought her in, and laid her on her own dainty little bed. The storm had ceased now; day dawned, the birds carolled and twittered at the casement, and the bright sunshine streamed in through Amy’s rose-coloured curtains, and fell sideways on her pale, grey face. Silent, hopeless, and awestricken the father and lover gazed upon their darling; the search is ended now—there she lies in her blue silk dress, all torn and mud-stained; her dark hair unwound and lying round her in long, damp coils; her tiny hands still clasped as though in prayer, and a look of agony and terror in her half-closed eyes. Alas! how changed. What terrible ordeal can she have passed through since she last lay sleeping here. There are lines on her brow, and dark circles beneath her eyes which tell of tears and sorrow; a pained look about the chiselled mouth which the Amy of old days never wore. Lord Hardcastle bends over her reverently—he will not even kiss her forehead, dead as she lies, for he dared not have done so living. Kneeling as he would to his sovereign, he takes her damp, cold hand in his to press to his lips; as he does so, something glittering on the third finger of her left hand catches his eye. What is it! Not the antique ruby ring with its quaint motto, “sans espoir je meurs,” only a plain gold band encircles the tiny finger—a simple wedding-ring!
They buried Mrs. Warden and Amy on one day—on one day, but not in one grave. People in Harleyford wondered much at this; and they wondered still more, when, shortly afterwards a splendid granite monument was placed over the mother’s grave, with name, age, date, birth, and death engraved in clear-cut letters; while Amy’s resting-place was shadowed only by a simple marble cross with but one word inscribed, “Aimée.
”
VIII
The news of Amy’s death was telegraphed to Frank at Dublin. Thither, following some imaginary clue, he had gone, and eager and hopeful at heart, the sudden tidings nearly proved his deathblow. Before the day closed which brought the news, Frank was lying helpless and unconscious on a bed of fever.
Mrs. Varley trembled for her son’s life; fortunately her address was known to the proprietor of the hotel where Frank was staying, and he had immediately telegraphed to her her son’s danger.
“Mary,” she said, addressing Miss Burton, “have you courage to cross the Channel with me to try to save my poor boy? The rector will follow next
