CHAPTER XXXIX.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 289, 11 August 1888, Page 3

CHAPTER XXXIX.

JUDITH LOOKS FOR THE GOUKTESS, AN T D FINDS SOMEONE ELSE. It was neaving tho middle of June. For an entire month Judith Ford had been steadily pursuing her object, yet to no purpose. She had travelled almost the entire length and breadth of England, visiting every mad-house, both private and public, into which she could gain admittance ; yet nowhere could she hear of such a place as Milford Grange, or find the slightest clue to her lost lady. Any other girl would have despaired, and given over things as hopeless, in the face of tho rebuffs and difficulties that Judith encountered ; but she was one of those persons in whom energy and unyielding determination are vital forces. She hoped against hope, in the very face of despair. The middle of June found her down in Lancashire, at a little public house on the edge of Lancaster Moor, called the White Hart. She had been- there before, in the first week after she left the Towers, and had failed in gaining admittance into the handsome county asylum for the insane that stood out upon the moor, and, led by a kind of impulse, she took the place on her return route, determined to make a second trial. The landlady of the White Hart was a pleasant, chatty little woman, and she and Judith speedily became the best of frionds They sat oub upon the back porch, in the golden glamour of a June su.iset, when Judith had been there some three or four days, Mrs Thatcher dandling her blackeyed baby on her knee, and Judith looking away toward the distant glimmer of the Irish Sea with solemn, wistful eyes. Life was growing to be very earnest and sorrowful to poor Judith ; nowhere in the wide world, perhaps, could there be found another young person so quiet and cheerful of demeanour, and yet so utterly hopeless at heart. Apart from her generous efforts for those she loved, she had not a single personal interest. Since the day svhen she read that brief notice in the breakfast parlour at Aukland Oaks, poor Judith's heart had lain dead and hopeless. The Victoria was lost ; and Hendrick was gone, and Judith's personal interests in life had gone with him. She was thinking it all over as she sat there that June afternoon on the porch of the White Hart Inn, her sad eyes wandering far out to sea — thinking of the dear, kindly face' that the cruel waves had for ever hidden, and picturing what might have been if Hendrick could only have come back to her. Half a score and more of years made no change with Judith ; her love was as true and tender, her loss as bitter and irreparable as in the first hour of bereavement. But she was entirely unselfish j she never magnified or paraded her own sorrows. The tears were gathering thick in her brown eyes, but 'she forced them back, and turned calmly to her hostess. ' And you roally think, Mrs Thatcher,' she said, resuming a former conversation, • that I shall succeed in getting a permit to the asylum?' Mrs Thatcher gave her baby a to3s and a kiss, before she replied. ' Thatcher says you may, 5 she said, • which he knows, too, bein' as he is in the squire's employ, 'an he said he'd make mention o' it this werry h'evening— l spose you'll know when he comes 'oine.' • 'Tis very kind in him,' replied Judith ; 'I feel very anxious to gain admi tance. Do you ever see any of the inmates, Mrs Thatcher ?' • Bless me, yes ! They parades 'em out summer days, an' sometimes they pas 3 right by the door. Many be the drink o' beer I've give the poor, crazy creeturs ! There •was one young man, in particular, I used to feel so sorry for ; a fine, 'andsome fellow he was, a kind p' sailor, I think ; an sich a mild, mournfuf look on his face." ' And what became of him ?' asked Judith. ' Had he no friends ?' • I believe not - an' 1 han't seen him this month or so — they transfei-s em' sometimes, an' mebbe he's been transferred.' ' They transfer them, do they ?' 'Yes, indeed— 'Hush a by-baby > your mamma's a lady' — yes, indeed, they transfers 'em. Why, near all o' these over on the Moor be sprung up from 'Milford Grange last summer ; an' a wild - looking lot be some o' 'em.' Judith caught her breath. At last, and from the lips of this chatty little barwoman ! ' Milfo*rd Grange !' she repeated, in a voice tremulous with suppressed excitement ; ' and where is that ?' ' Oh, furder down a good bit,' replied Mrs Thatcher, giving her baby a vigorous toss ;"'* way down 'bout the coast pint — bheyuste'd to.keep-em down there, but the old place be fallen to pieces, and they transfers 'em all to the Moor.' • You are sure none are kept down there now?' , . ' Sure 'nough— the Grange was left to go to rack, bub a month ago young Lord Ross bought it, and he be a buildin' hup for a residence, an' a doleful residence 'twill be, right down on the coast, in a thicket of wild firs.' Judith rose to her feet in a tremor from head to foot. < Oh, Mrs Thatcher,' she cried, ' you don't know what a favour you have done me 1 For over a month I have been searching in vain for Milford Grange. ' ' I beg your pardon, young woman,' returned the landlady, with wide, amazed eyes, 'but what do you want o' Milford Grange ? The young lord as lives there 'I had a dear friend sent to Milford Orawge over twelve years ago,' interrupted Judith, ' and I have been trying to find her .ever fsujce. Oh, Mrs Thatcher, I hope I .shall not fail now.' Judith was sobbing now, despite her coolness and self -repression, and Mrs Thatcher, a kind-hearted little woman, brushed a sympathetic drop from her own eye. against her baby's fat cheek. 'No more you sha'n't,' she cried ;' you shall have a permit to git in at the Moor, provided that will answer. Thatcher he be in wi the squire, and he ken manage it. Bub 'tis a poor chance, I'm feared— wimmm folks die out powerful fast in them 'sylums. Be yer friend a woman ?' ♦ She was a noble lady, the Countess ot "Strathspey,' replied Judith. Mrs Thatcher came within a hairs breath . of dropping her blessed baby. ' Oh, Lud !' she cried, « a countess ! An ye h'aint a tellin' me which you be a noble lady yerself, miss, a sebtin' here on the tWhiteHartporQh?'

'No,' smiled Judith; *I was maid and companion to the countess, bub I loved her, and I would give my lite to find her. She was no more insane than you or me when they sent her off. She was foully dealt by, ; poor lady !' ' Ye shall go and hunt her,' said the land- , lady, ' and I'll go along, leastways if I can git Jinnie to come and keep the baby, bless bor heart ! I've been insido o' tho 'sylum, and I'd be company like fur ye — an' I do pray ye may succeed in finding the poor lady alive.' On the following day, through the influence of the squire, the landlord of the White Hart succeeded in getting thepermit; and on the day after, Jinnie, the landlady's sister, having come over to louk after baby, the land lady herself, accompanied by Judith, set out for the institution. They were parading a number of the inmates up and down the grounds when the two women entered tho gates ; and Judith, as she walked slowly up the broad I avenue, scanned every face sho met, with a beating heart. Poor, wan, vacant faces by the score, but nowhere the face she sought. Speaking kindly to tho poor creatures that thronged around them, the two women made their way into the building, and as a tirsb step, Judith begged leave to see Doctor Penrytb, the surgeon in charge. She was accordingly conducted by one of the keepers to a small office, where the doctor soon joined them — a small, wiry little man, with an alert, ferret-like face. Judith stated the object of her visit at once, and produced the card bearing the address of Milfoni Grange. Could Doctor Penryth remember if a lady, a small, beautiful lady, with blue eyes and golden hair Marguerite Strathspey by nmno.wifeof Lord Strathspey of Strathspey Towers, had been transferred from Milford Grange to this asylum ? The doctor watched her keenly while she put the question. ' Countess of Strathspey !' he meditated. ' Well, so many of the poor creatures fancy they are queens and countesses, tis a ha> d matter to keep the run of their names. I cannot call to mind any such name or individual. Do you come from the unfortunate lady's friends ? Do you desire to remove her ?' Judith answered warily. ' I was her friend, and wish to know I what has become of her ?' . Doctor Penryth was sorry, but he could not give her any information. He bowed himself out, and Judith requested the keeper to conduct them through the institution. 'And,' she added, as he proceeded to guide them, opening her hand and showing him a fi\e pound note, ' if you get me the information I de-ire I'll give j 7 ou this.' The man q inned at sight of the money, and bade them follow him. At the door of the first-matron s room lie paused, and tapped lightly. A stern and stately woman appeared. 'She can tell you if anyone can,' whispered the keeper. Judith stated her business, and the matron, apparently won by her pleasant face and earnest manner, bade them enter and be seated. ' Countess of Strathspey !' she repeated, putting her hand to her head. ' The n »ne sounds familiar to me — but I hear so many names. Countess of Strathspey !-— what manner of woman was she?' ' Small and slender, and very lovely, with blue eyes and golden hair. ' 1 think I do remember her,' replied the matron, at last, 'or a woman of that description, who called herself Countess of Strathspey. She came to us at Milford Grange, and was brought up here, and - oh, yes, I have.it now — she viadv her r^cape ! Judith uttered a ciy of surprise. • Yes,' continued the matron, reflectively, ' she escaped and attempted to cros 1 - the river below here. It was swollen fiom prolonged rains, and the poor creature was drownpd. The fchawl she wore diifiod ashore the next day, and her boay was found about a week after. That vas about two yeai-s ago, and I think her people were apprised of the event.' Judith did not utter a word. The cruel trath had stabbed her heart like a knife. After all her hopes and weary efforts, this was the end ! She aro.se, with a few words of thanks to th^ matron, and passed out, slipping the five-pound note into the keeper's hand. ' Won't you look around a bit, ma'am ?' he said, smirking and bowing in his delight. Mrs Thatcher was anxious to avail herself of the invitation, and Judith did not object, she followed them along the dim and dusty corridois, thinking what a life her poor lady must have led shut up in that dreary place, and picturing to herself all the horrors of her attempt to escape, her very soul dissolved in pity and grief. The cells were ranged along the corridors, with little square windows in the doors, through which the poor, crazed inmates, could look out, only the most violent being closely confined. All the way down they were i-eering out, laughing, and gibbering, and singing— a sad sight to behold. Judith barely glanced at them in her sorrowful preoccupation ; but presently Mrs Thatcher clutched her arm. ' Theie he be '' she cried, pointing to m e of the windows — ' the sailor-feller as I telled ye of, which come to the White Hart long ago. See the poor soul — do let's &top and speak to him !' Judith followed her pointing finger^ and saw a pale face lit up by a pair of kindly brown eyes. After the first glance, she stood still and stared like one in a dream. Then making a step forward, she uttered a piercing cry, and fell in a deadly swoon be fore the door of the cell.