Moanataiari Gold; OR. LUCY BENTLEY'S LOVER.

Thames Star, Volume XIII, Issue 4212, 1 July 1882, Page 1

Moanataiari Gold; OR. LUCY BENTLEY'S LOVER.

By Jenny Wben.

, CHAPTER X r MY MOTHEB. T ln the sweet, fair spring time/when Nature's charms were" fresh and greenwhen the glad song of the birds made the old woods ring with melody, and the happy children came dancing through the pleasant glade in search of the first primroses and sweet-scented violets, my mother and I took possession of our new home, in the neat little cottage .which bore the name of the "Lodge," just within the massive iron gates of Sir Roger Lincoln's lovely grounds. My mother i was a widow, and I her'only child (my lather having died while I was an infant, and my elder brother, George, having been lost at sea on.his voyage-out to Australia some years before the tine of my story. The Lodge^keeper's death having made • vacancy, Sir Roger'■ housekeeper, a worthy woman; who had I been my mother's friend from/girlhood, recommended her to the steward; 'and thus, every other matter having been satisfactorily arranged," we left oar lodgings in the little town of S—; and oame to this sweet country spot, where the pure air and comparatively easy occupation were fondly expected to recruit my mother's declining health.' Longl and faithfully she had toiled, for me during all those lonely years of widowhood—some* times leaving me with -some * trusted friend while she accepted-a situation-In a lady's household; at,others, clinging tenaciously to me '(her only earthly .treasure), and.gainiag our sitnple'livelihood by plain,sewing, fancy -work, .teach* ing young children, or any such means that enabled us to eDJoy a little homo together. -She had received several offers of marriage, but all had met with.a most decisive refusal; as she was wont to observe^- "'No' other will, 1 save-God's should rule our actions, since He had removed, in His own good pleasure" (yes, with trembling'accents she. could.say it now), " your own dear father." Oh ! hpw, obe lpved me. I often call to mind £ftw, dojrn the long viata of silent years, the sweetness of her smile as it' 'rested so

fondly upon me—the tender, yearning love that expressed itself in every look, word, and action of that self-denying life. For me she lived, for me she prayed, for me she toiled with the devotion of a true mother's soul; my happiness was her bliss—my welfare her chief desire and happiness. My earliest recollections are of her tender solicitude for me during a severe attack of illness, which threatened for the time to deprive her of my childish companionship. I remember seeing her kneeling by my bedside, and, while iho earnest words of prayer for my speedy recovery trembled ou her lips, the tears of motherly love and anxiety coursed

.down her cheeks. All for me were her requests—all for me were those tears. Oh! my mother ! Precious is the memory of thy love to the lonely child. I was just seventeen when my mother accepted the situation of Lodge-keeper at Sir Eoger Lincoln's, and folks had often remarked aside, though not too low for my quick, girlish ears to catch, the welcome tones of flattery—" What a pretty girl!" Yes, I knew I was pretty, for did not the reflection in the chimneyglass which hung in mother's modest parlor assert the fact that I had a most decidedly pleasing countenance, with

dark brown eyes, shaded by drooping

lashes, which rested on my rosy cheeks. Yes, sometimes I was wont to think them „ too rosy for bsauty, but dear mother always praised them then. I'm sure my nose was quite the correct thing— not turned up, like Jessie Simmond's, the housemaid's, at the Hall; and my teeth were very white and even, while a small, dimpled mouth and chin completed my charms. In figure, I was slight, and rather below the average height, but mother said I was remarkably upright. Dear soul! of course I was perfection in her eyes.

Life at the Lodge became rather monotonous to me after the lapse of a few weeks, and I begged of mother to allow me to visit the servants at the Hall, who were always ready to give me a smile and pleasant greeting as they passed our gate. But mother was not eager to make acquaintances, and always had an excuse for keeping me at her side. Tbanks to her loving self-denial, I had received an excellent education; indeed, quite superior to what other girls of my own station in life could attain, which rendered me a little conceited at times, I sorrow to admit, even towards the dear heart that had bestowed the privilege upon me. Yet, I dearly loved my mother, and, in my better moments, was ever ready to bow toher superior wisdom and loving admoni^ tion.

My home duties were light, our household being so small, and I frequently spent hours in the fresh summer mornings cultivating my favorite flowers in our little garden plot, and training the pretty creeping plants around our rustic porch. I was thus busily engaged one evening in Jane, when the last rays of the setting sun illumined the distant horizon, and clothed the pleasing landscape with, its ruddy glow, when Isheard the sound of a horse's hoofs approaching the v Lodge gates, and, hastily laying down my garden trowel, went out to open the gate.

A. handsome stranger, mounted on a fine chestnut steed, waited admittance to Sir Roger's grounds, and, with a pleasant smile and cordial "Thank you," passed through the open gates, and gaily trotted up the drive.

Mother had gone to the village, and I could not resist the temptation of leaning over the gate of bar little garden and watching him until he disappeared from view in the winding shrubberies beyond.

" I wonder who he is P" I asked myself, and the question kept repeating itself in my mind all the time I was busied in preparing the tea in anticipation of my mother's speedy return.

I thought her rather later than usual, so placed the teapot by the fire to keep hot, arid went to the window to watch for her return.

"Perhaps she might be waiting for letters at the Tillage Post Office, or Mrs Ponsonby, the steward's wife, might have asked her to stay to tea," I thought.

Bat, just as these surmises were passing through my mind, I saw the steward himself—a kind man, and one/ much respected by all the tenantry—approach" ing with a very serious countenance. I hastened io meet him, and a pain thrilled through my heart as he uttered my name, for the tone of his voice convinced me that he was the bearer of sorrowful tidings.

" Lucy Bently," he said, " you have been taught to trust in God. I beg you to place your confidence in Him now, my child, for He alone can sustain you in the hour of trial."

" My mother?" I exclaimed, in terror; " what has happened P Oh, Mr Ponsonby, tell me—take me to her."

" Hush, hush, poor heart," replied he; " your mother is even now being brought home. I came to break it to you—poor child," and his voice shook with emotion, " your dear mother's spirit has fled home to its eternal rest. She expired quite suddenly as she sat in my house reading a letter Bhe had received. Dr Goodlove says she must have suffered long from disease of the heart."

Then, I remembered the sudden paroxysms of pain dear mother had been subject to, and her reluctance to speak of their origin to me, always striving to screen me from all possible sorrow. She had thought to keep this knowledge, from me in kindest, but mistaken, affection. My darling mother! boon they came, those silent bearers, with their precious, though lifeless, burden, and I gazed, in grief too deep for words or even tears, on that beloved form, which was now unconscious of my love or care. , .

By-and-bye, they tried to comfort me, and prevailed on ma to go home with

Mrs Ponsonby for a little while, but I could not allow another to keep that sad night vigil with the beloved dead, so must needs return to the Lodge when the silvery moonbeams seemed to wrap the earth in one vast silvery shroud, and my mother's yearning eyes seemed gazing upon me from the starry heights above, where methinks " the many mansions " surely are.

Susy hands made all the necessary preparations, and deft fingers fashioned the mourning garments T must wea.r. for my beloved, but I seemed Heedless of it all as I wandered from'; parlor' to kitchen, and from kitchen to' the bed-chamber, in tearless, heart-stricken sorrow. .They gave me a letter— ; tlie letter dear mother had been reading afe.tlie time of her death, and in it I learned- of the mysterious preservation of my brother whom we had mourned as dead, and of .his earnest desire that we—my mother and I—should join him in New Zealand/where he would provide us with a comfortable, happy home.

Alas! it must have been this sudden news that gave her the shock which deprived her of life, aDd left me desolate —oh ! so desolate in my heart's agony. But the time came when I must press my last, fond kiss upon that snowy brow, and then the fountain of my tears gushed forth, and I knelt beside her bier in a paroxysm of weeping. I will not dwell upon my sorrow, as the cold grave received my loved one in its narrow depths, but must not omit to mentioa with gratitude the great kindness I received from Mrs Ponsonby and the housekeeper at the Hall. The family were soon expected home from the Continent, and as there were great to be made for their arrival, in the way of new upholstery, &c , and I being clever with my * needle, besides possessing a correct eye and good taste in these matters, my services were retained by Mrs Benson to assist her in the needlework, &c.'' '

I wrote to my brother informing him of ©ur bereavement, and by-and-bye received a very kind, regretful answer, in which was enclosed funds sufficient to pay my passage to Auckland,-if I. would venture the lonely voyage, where George. assured me of a hearty brotherly welcome." I could not immediately make up my mind to this proposal, being naturally timid of the sea — besides,, regarding George as almost a stranger, having but a slight remembrance of him as a wilful boy, who would not stay at home, so eager was he for a seafaring life. We had thought him dead, but he had been most wonderfully preserved on one of the many islands which abound in the South Pacific, and had passed several years among the natives, who had been uniformly kind to him, but would not hear of his leaving them. However, on the occasion of a vessel loading with fruit for Auckland, he had eluded their vigilance, and escaped from his island home.

He had written several time, but never received an answer, owing, 1 suppose, to our removal to this quiet retreat, where letters were rare indeed.

Mrs Benson advised me to avail myself of his offer, and kindly provided me with a letter of introduction to a friend of her's in London, who would interest himself in my affairs. But I lingered on with Mrs Benson all the winter, fearing to go forth into the wide world alone, and, above all, to cross the wide expanse of ocean which lay between me and my brother George. Meanwhile, the family returned for the Christmas festivities, and there were grand doings at the Hall. One day, as I was standing at Mrs Benson's side, holding a pile of snowy linen she had taken from the great press, a manly footstep approached, and the next moment the " stranger" I have before alluded to stood before us.

" Goad morning, Benson," said he, in a cheery voice—" the old house does seem just the right place to spend Christmas in. ' There's no place like home,' I do declare, after all."

"I'm glad to hear you say so, sir," replied the housekeeper, respectfully; "it seems nice to see you about the place agaiu. If I may be so bold as to say so, I wish you could always stay in the .country." " Perhaps it would be better for me, Benson," he replied, looking-up, and I was conscious of his earnest gaze resting upon me for a moment as he added gaily—" But there's no such luck for me. London's air is fully stuffy, though. Well, I'm off with the skaters —the ice is in splendid condition."

"Be careful, sir," said Mrs Benson; "there's been a many accidents lately, to be sure."

" Oh, I'll look out, you kind old soul," he cried merrily, smiling at her fears ; " look out for those famous mince pies of yours, Benson—l'm as fond of them as ever."

Mrs Benson turned an admiring look upon his retreating figure as he went down the corridor, whistling a gay Christ* mas melody, and observed, " He's just the same, is Master Frank—such a tine, noble-hearted fellow, full of life and spirit. The old house do seem homely with him at home."

Then I learned that this was Mr Frank Lincoln, Sir Roger's nephew,, projective heir to Lincoln Manor and estates. I could not forget how handsome he was — how cheery his voice sounded in the gloomy old corridor—how firm and manly his footstep on the old oaken staircase. "Lucy, what are you doing?" cried Mr Benson, in dismay; " you have left the linen press open. I told you to lock it, and bring me the keys." Dreaming happy day-dreams — well, 'not exactly, but allowing my thoughts to wander in a very strange, misty atmosphere of possibilities and probabilities* I seemed hardly to hear the voice of my mistress as she bade me "sort them table-napkins quickly." That night I dreamed that George stood upon a distant* shore, beckoning me to come to him, while a .figure, almost shrouded in cloudy mist, seemed to spread its shadow o'er me, as if to shelter me from all danger of impending evil, and, looking up, I recognised my mother's angel countenance, beaming with love and tender solicitude. But there was one, by my side, holding my hand, and bending o'er me so closely that I almost felt his warm breath upon my cheek, and, when he spoke, it was the voice of Frank Lincoln, bidding me "tarry yet a little longer." And, as I turned to .look in his face, the dream faded, and I became conscious of Jessie Simmonds, the housemaid's, presence, telling me " 'twas late, and Mrs Benson would be vexed, that she would."

To be continued.