CHAPTER XXVI.

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 284, 25 July 1888, Page 4

CHAPTER XXVI.

A IHIESENTIMEST. The Countess of Strathspey was back again at Aukland Oaks with only a little tartan cap and the memory of a manly little lace framed in blonde curls. Fate had done its worst. She had lost her last hope, her last interest in life. A dull, death-like despair chilled her very life-blood, a terrible presentiment of some near evil haunted her continually. ' Judith,' she said, ' I must see Doctor Renfrew. He is the only friend I have. And I would like to see him as soon as possible.' And Judith, with swift-falling tears at the sight of her poor lady's pitiful, white face, telegraphed for the old Scotchman, and he came. The June foliage was bright and green, as he drove under the arches of the noble old oaks, the grand, dim gardens, sweet with the breath of the hyacinth and mignonette and early roses. The grey-haired footman ushered hini in, and Judith conducted him to the little morning-room in which the countess always sat, the room she had loved in the bright days of her happy girlhood. White and thin as any midnight spectre, she arose to receive bim ; yet a lady still, daintily and prettily attired, her wondrous golden hair in perfect order, in spite of all her troubles. The old man's eyes filled with tears as he took her transparent hand and seated himself beside her. ' My poor child,' he faltered, ' what can I do for you ?' ' Nothing in the way of medicine, doctor,' she replied, with a sad smile ; ' my disease is beyond your skill. I have sent tor you as a friend, not as a physician.' ' Then, what can 1 do for you as a friend ? % he asked, taking off his glasses, and wiping the dimming moisture from his eyes. She toid him the story of the strange and mysterious abduction of the little Tyrol boy. 1 And now,' she continued, while he listened in grave amazement, ' I have sent for you to make a lcu>t request.' Doctor Renfrew looked up with sharp, questioning eyes. 1 Don't be alarmed, doctor,' she said, quietly answering his thought as if he had spoken it ; ' I have no thought of becoming a suicide— l am not so lost as that in spite of all my troubles. But for over a week I have been haunted by a presentiment that something is about to befall me. It may be death, it may oe something toorse. Heaven only knoAvs !' Her solemn, thrilling voice and white face chilled the sturdy old Scotchman's blood. IMy child,* he said, ' your troubles have affected your mmd — you aie morbid and melancholy — I must give you something.' 1 Give me what you please, but first hear me. As sure an we are sitting here together, some evil or trouble, doctor, is near !I am not mi&taken ! I know it ! In case of my death, doctor, or in case of any other calamity, 1 want to leave everything I possess in your hands. This place, the old chateau, my jewels, all my personal property. Can Ido it, think you ?' c I don't know,' replied the doctor. ' I suppose you can — at least, whatever belong* to you in your own right.' 'Judith,' &he said, as the girl looked in, J 'send the carriage for Lawyer Botts— l want to see him at once.' • If I may leave you all thai belongs to me,' she continued, ' I want you, doctor, to hold it for my son. My son,' she added, with a strange, inspired light in her eyes, ' who will one day be hi-a father's heir, and clear his poor mother's injiucd name. Hold it, or expend it, just a& you think best,' she went on, ' for I think you will hear of the boy one day. I seem to have a faculty of lookirg into the future. I think you will hear of him ; you will know him by his face, .so like his father's, and by the birth mark on his arm. Doctor, tell my boy how his mother loved him, and try to make him what you would your own son. Will you promise me ?' 'Yes, my child, I will,' replied the physician, beginning to be convinced that her mind was wandering ; « but — ' ' Well, never mind,' she continued ; 'your promise contents me. I leave my boy and his future in your hands. You are my only friend. One thing more, and I will cease to trouble you. When lam gone — and it seems a dark place to which I am going,' she added, a dreamy, far-away look upon her face — ' not death, or the grave, but something indescribably more dreary and dreadful.' ' My poor, dear child !' cried Doctor Renfrew, his voice full of pity. ' Nay, doctor,' s;ie smiled ; ' I am not mad, as you think. My brain is as clear as yours. Hear me out When you see Lord Strathspey, tell him that ray last message wa" a message of love and forgiveness ; tell him I forgive all his injustice, and love him a? the lather of the son who will one day be his pride and honour. That's all, only to beg your pardon for so much trouble and talk.' The lawyer came, and the necessary writings were drawn up, the last will and testament of the countess, bequeathing all her personal possessions to Dr. Renfrew in trust for her child. The annuity settled upon her by her husband she had never touched. He had cast her off, and called her faith in question, and she scorned to live upon his bounty. : Doctor Renfiew took his departure very reluctantly ; his own family were ill, or he would have remained a few days, to see, as he expressed it, how the poor child's malady would terminate. He drove off, with a sad heart, after having given Judith all necessary chai'ges in regard to her mistress.|

Side by side, dn the long, old-fashioned portico, the countess and Judith stood, watching him till he disappeared from sight. 'I feel at rest now,' the countess remarked, seating herself beneath the sunny woodbine, and making a place for Judith beside her. ' Sit down, Judith ; I want to talk a little with you. ' Judith obeyed, sitting beside hermistress, and baking her thin little hand in both of hers. She treated her with the tender affection she would have bestowed upon a little child. ' I think we are about to part, Judith,' remarked Lady Strathspey, *as I told you yesterday — whether it will be by death, or in some other wav, I cannot determine — but we are on the point of being separated, my true and faithful friend.' • Oh, my clear lady !' cried Judith, burst ing into tears ; ' you are all I have to live for now !' • I know it, my good girl ; but other interests will come to you by-ani-by, and I leave my little orphan boy, wherever he is, to your care. You must aid Doctor Renfrew in finding him, and in taking care of him ; and cry some time and see poor little Pearl. But 'tis needless for me to tell you ; I know you will do all you can.' ' Indeed, indeed, my lady, I will,' sobbed poor Judith. 'Nay, my poor Judith,' continued the countess, caressing the girl's cheek with her thin little hand, ♦ you shall not weep so ; we must be brave and strong, no matter what takes place, brave and strong, Judith, and by-and-by there will be some brightness for us — all the day will not be dark, the sunset will be cloudless.' Judith, like Doctor Renfrew, believed that the mind of the poor countess was giving way; and that night, when they retired to rest, she begged permission to sleep on a pallet in her lady's chamber. The countess smiled sadly at the request. ' You think I am losing my mind, Judith,' phe said : ' but you are mistaken ; I never was moie sane in my life. However, sleep in my room, and welcome — I like to have you neat me while I may.' And Judith made her pallet beneath the window, where the summer moonlight streamed in, and lay there for hours, listening to the rustle of the oak boughs without, and to the quiet breathing of her lady, never dreaming that it was the last night they would pass together for many a weary year.