The doctor went softly into the middle of the room and looked at his patient. The hectic flush was fading from her face, and she seemed to be sinking into a sweet sound sleep.
“I am so thankful to see her thus,” said Mr. Warden, “she has been so feverish and excitable all day, I think the storm must have upset her nerves.”
“Hush!” said the doctor, solemnly, holding up his hand, “this is not sleep; this is death, Mr. Warden; she will soon be beyond the sound of storm and tempest.” He yielded his place to the husband, who, kneeling by her side, took her thin white hand in his. Hardcastle and the doctor withdrawing to a further corner of the room, waited and watched for the end to come.
Gradually the storm subsided, and the rain settled down into a slow steady fall. The breathing of the patient became slower and fainter, and the doctor whispered to Hardcastle that the end was at hand. At that moment a long low wail sounded on the outside of the window, and Hardcastle, peering through the dark panes, could see “Presto’s” brown head and glittering eyes pressed close against the glass.
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!
CHAPTER VII.
MRS. WARDEN passed away before midnight; only the doctor and her husband were with her at the last moment, for Hardcastle, bare-headed 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.