Moanataiari Gold; OR, LUCY BENTLEY'S LOVER.

Thames Star, Volume XIII, Issue 4230, 22 July 1882, Page 1

Moanataiari Gold; OR, LUCY BENTLEY'S LOVER.

By Jenny Week.

CHAPTER lll.—(Continued). Out on the wide, expansive ocean, far away from sight of land, floats a helpless, dismasted vessel—her ill-fated passengers grouped about her decks, gazing with anxious eyes upon the becalmed waters, which but two days ago wrought her destruction in their storm-lashed fury. The pumps were worked by eager, willing hands, which wearied neither night or day in their ceaseless labor, yet the water gained upon us hourly, and Captain Topsail began to .wear a serious countenance as they measured the leak* age in the hold from time to time. Mr and Mrs Ashcroft, the girls, and I had been washed out of onr cabin berths by a heavy sea, while Philip had with difficulty succeeded in rescuing his . brothers from a watery grave. The storm had lasted many hours, and the hapless Glenlora was indeed in a pitiful plight, having Jost several of her crew, who were washed overboard by a tremendous wave, which carried away her, saloon cabins and forecastle with a mighty sweep. ; And here we were becalmed in mid* ocean, the water gaining upon as fast, and no sail in sight as far as the eye can sweep the wide horizon. Thoughts of Frank passed through my mind as I leaned over the side of the vessel, and just then Philip approached, and stood beside me silent and still. Presently, he spoke, with evident difficulty controlling his feelings, his fine countenance working with emotion. " Lucy,'—said he, "you have guarded your secret well, but I have learned long ere this to look upon my love 83 hopeless, knowing that you have betrothed yourself to Frank Lincoln. Yes," he added, as I started violently at this sudden declaration, •' I was in the old churchward that night, and, though an unintentional eavesdropper, I heard every word. To have moved would have betrayed my presence,. so — although your- words were like arrows in my heart—l* was compelled to listen. But I only want to express my wishes for your future welfare, Lucy, if we should ever reach the shore. My dream is over—only for my mother's sake I desire to live and labor still." I tried to speak, but something seemed to choke me, and ere I could find words to reply, he had moved to the other side of the vessel.

Just then, old Mr Ashcroft came to me, and, taking my hand, said gently— " Trust in God, Lucy; no one else can save us—the old ship is settling fast, and they are getting out the boats. Gome to mother, and be* a brave little girl—we may yet be saved. 1' Silently, I followed him to where the women and children were gathered to* gether, watching the launching of the , long-boat. "Keady," cried Captain .Topsail, " steady—women and children first, my lads, God speed them." Mrs Ashcroft, the girls, and I were placed in the boat with serial others, and.. yet there was room for one more. " Jump, Philip," cried hie mother, with streaming eyes—" my life is not worth having, without you." " Jump, Philip," I found utterance to say, calling him by his Christian same for the firsftime in'my life.; " No, mother," he answered — " Til - trust to Providence. Good bye. Goodbye, Lucy,", he added; " keep up e> brave heart for Frank's sake. May God bless'V, ,youi" '. , The other boats were soon filled, aodi > having taken as much provisions and.

water as we could carry, stood off from the unfortunate vessel. Those who were left hastened to construct a raft as strong as possible, on to which they scrambled with some provisions, and just in time, for as they paddled within a little distance of the boats, the Glenlora suddenly heeled over, and went down into the silent waters.

Chapteb IV. TEN YEABB. Sitting in my pleasant chamber, from the window of which I can see the winding rifer as it wends its way onward to the distant "Golden Mountains" of Te Aroha, I again take up my pen. It is ten years since first I landed on the fair, shores of the beautiful Waitexnata, and I have grown older and wiser since then, but, though my faith in man has often been severely tried and shaken, yet have I found a safe and abiding refuge in " my mother's God." As I recall the etents of that sad, lonely time of waiting and watching, I wonder how I was enabled to bear the j suspense and bitter grief which followed. j After spending nearly a week in that frail boat, where last my readers left us, _ . we were picked up by a trading vessel r bound to Sydney. I say "we "—that is . the occupants of the long-boat, for the other boats had parted company, while the raft, with its brare oarsmen, was left far behind. Of their fate, we knew nothing—poor Mrs Ashcroft refusing to i be comforted, as she bewailed the loss of her beloved son. We arrived safely in Sydney, from whence I wrote again to brother George, telling him of all our misfortunes. For a long time, I received no answer; then a letter came from a friend of his, telling me that my brother had been killed in a mining accident on. the goldfield, and remitting to me—his only living relative—the sum of £500, the value of all poor George's earthly possessions at the time of his death. The Ashcrofts had decided to remain in Sydney for the present, and, having obtained employment on a station, they settled down to colonial life with a better grace than I had expected, in spite of all their losses and disappointments. It was feared that both Philip and his father had perished, but of their fate we were left in painful uncertainty. Soon after, our arrival, Maggie and Floss received very good offers of marriage from the squatter's sons on whose station they had settled as dairymaids, thus providing Mrs Ashcroft with a good home for the remainder of her days. I stayed in Sydney in company with a lady who had been our companion in misfortune—a Mrs Robertson,—to whom I became sincerely attached. She was such a gentle creature, and bore her trials with, such heroic patience (for she, too, had "lost her husband, and both her children had died in the boat) that I eonldlhot help loving her and admiring her noble character. Together, we rented a small house; and opened a private school for young children, which provided us . "with « comfortable livelihood. But my heart knew no rest or comfort , here, being quite unable to learn anything ! of Frank Lincoln's whereabouts, and uncertain as to whether we should ever meet again. . However, when I received poor George's legacy, I decided to come over to Auckland in the hope of finding Frank, so, bidding farewell to Mrs Robertson, I took my passage in one of the splendid steamers of the Union Company, and was

soon on my way to this country. I arrived in Auckland, and made every inquiry, but without success. I could ~ not find. or hear anything of my lost lover. •, '

I stayed in that city a few months, then came down to the Thames, thinking sadly of poor George'b untimely death. I took a situation in a quiet family residing at Farawai, and strove to fulfil my daily duties faithfully with a heart full of bitter disappointment and sorrow. Life seemed so. cheerless, and I was so young.-. I felt like a wasted being, without aim or ambition for anything. Three years passed, and I had received several offers of marriage, all of which I had steadily refused, when the lady with whom I was living was suddenly taken ill, and in a short time died, leaving a young family to mourn her loss. I could not say what prompted me to go to Auckland just then, but being out of a situation, I thought I would have a brief change; so I went, and oh! cruel fate, as I walked down Queen Street on tlte.very day of my arrival, who should I meet butJTrank —my own Frank, in com- - pany with a lady and two sweet children. My heart nearly stood still with joy when I first recognised him, but. then a chill ■ ran. through me as I noted his companions. He started like one in a dream, and, holding out his hand, exclaimed — "Miss Bently, is it really yourself? I -heard that not one of the unfortunate passengers of the Glenlora reached land in safety." '■ ■. For one moment I looked at him in - f wild astonishment—then tried nature gave Viray.and Ifell in a swoon at his feet. When I came to, I found myself in a . handsome chamber, reclining on softest £ cushions, while a lady, who was; very '«*?' beautiful, bent over me with tearful solicitude. " Poor thing !" she cried—" there do rest awhile. My husband has told me all the strange coincidence of your supposed loss. You were acquainted with his family, nnd resided at the Hall with his young cousin, whom they wanted him to marry. There—you see I know all about it," she continued, as I attempted tospeak—" and_ I bid you welcome to our . home. I will leave you quiet now for awhile, but I trust you will be sufficiently recovered to join us at dinner." So this was the story he had told her, .and she was —his wife!' I lay quiet, trying to collect my scattered thoughts, while a dull sense of misery stole over my spirit at the thought of my wrecked happiness. Presently, a door opened softly, and Frank Lincoln, looking haggard and ill, approached my couch. Seating himself -beside me, he took my hand, on whioh - still gleamed the betrothal ring he had placed there, and covered it with passionate kisses. " Oh, Lucy," he cried, " what cruel fate tore you from me, to my heart's sorrow, only to restore you when it is Useless—useless to assert my undying lore for yon?" "TTrank," I said, " you must not use such words to me, Remember your wife

—she is evidently worthy of all your lore, but tell me how you heard that there was no hope of our meeting " "I was in Melbourne," he replied; " when tidings came of the loss of the Glenlora with all on board. I read the \ list of passengers with eager, anxious eyes, and there was your name with the Asbcroft family. I was nearly wild with grief for weeks. By and-bye, a rumour came that a few had been saved; but I never knew if it were true, and knew not where to Beck for tidings of you, if you were yet alive. Hopeless and' distracted with grief, I wandered about Melbourne, until I received -a letter from home informing me of poor old Uncle Eoger's illness, and desiring my speedy return. \lt mattered not to me where I went i when you were lost to me, so I took ! the next vessel home, arriving at. Lincoln Manor but a short time before his death. Lilian was msrried, I heard, to a wealthy baronet in a neighbbringcounty. Eustace Goodlove had died of scarlet fever, so I fonnd mpself in undisputed possession of the title and estates. I remained in England for sometime, when a roving fit seized me again, and I came out to New Zealand. / Here in Auckland I met the lady who is now my wife, and, by a strange fatality, was induced to marry her, though I found it impossible to kindle a new love out of the ashes of my grief. Oh, Lucy, what would I give to undo this one act of my life—if I were but free* to take you to my heart, how proudly I would take you home to England as mistress of the old Hall."

"Hush, hush, Sir Francis," I replied, though I saw how he winced at the title —•'I am not fitted to occupy such a position; be.sure it is all for the best. I am sure Lady Lincoln does credit to your choice. She is very beautiful, and I know she is good by her gentle manner. Be brave. It would have been far better if we had never met; yet it will be such a comfort to me to know that you are taking up your life work nobly, and filling your rightful position in this world with faithful responsibility. Good-bye, my dear, lost love ; we must part— VI cannot remain here," I cried, rising ; " have pity on me, for I have suffered muchy and allow me to leave quietly, wilhont disturbing Lady Lincoln." f

"Lucy, must we-part thus?" cried Sir Francis; "I am returning to England in a few days with my family. Can Ido nothing for you before I go ?" " Nothing," I replied ; " I wish you j well. See, it is better that you take back this ring. I have faithfully kept the promise I gave when I received it, but it is mine no longer. Farewell." fieplacing my hat, which lay on the floor beside me, I hurried away, leaving poor Frank sitting there with his face buried in his hands. I Out of the house, into the quiet streets of Parnell, I went forth like one in a dream, walking onward, as though I could leave far behind the memory of this truth that.Frank was no longer mine—no, not even in thought, for was he not the husband of a good and beautiful woman, well worthy to fill such an exalted position. I returned to my lodgings, where I was seized with a severe attack of brain fever, which brought me nearly to that land where sorrow cannot enter, but, through the kindness of the good woman who nursed me so carefully, I ultimately recovered- , I remained with her for two years, earning my livelihood by needlework, and filling up my leisure time by writing little sketches for various journals, which employment diverted my thoughts and also added another item to my slender income. I heard of Sir Francis' safe arrival in England, where, I believe, he took up his responsibilities as landlord and M.P. for the town of S—■ with a sincere desire to benefit his fellow men and to perform faithfully the duties which pertained to his position. About this time, Mrs Goodman, my landlady, removed to the Thames, and I, having no definite reason for remaining in Auckland, accompanied her. Mrs Goodman opened a little store, while her husband worked in the Moanatairi mine, in which he held a few shares. But a time of depression occurred just then, and the little store proved a failure, as also the mine for the time being, and the Goodmaus became very poor; indeed, as they had invested all their little capital in mining interests, which at present yielded no return, their prospects were anything but hopeful. However, Mr Goodman eventually found employment at the Hauraki Saw Mills, wile his patient wife toiled at her wash-tub, hoping for better times.

Chafteb V. " MOANATAIBI GOLD." One day, as I sat busily sewing away, striving to complete an order which a good lady had procured for me, being part of the trousseau of the bride«expectant of one of our esteemed townsmen, Mrs Goodman came in from her wash-tub, her hands all frothy with suds, her cap all awry, and her face all aglow with no ordinary excitement. "Lucy, Lucy," she cried, "I always said as it were a long lane that had no turning—l always told my Jim that the tide would turn for us some day, and now;, sure enough, I've just heard as how them Moanatairis as Jim tried to sell afore he went up to the Mill has gone up tremendous all of a suddint, and that means that our fortin's made. There's luck!" I sincerely congratulated my friend on her good fortune, while she tidied herself without delay, declaring "as she wasn't agoin' to slave no more. She would get a girl from Mrs Hanhan's, that she would." Then, putting on her hat, she i sallied forth, basket in hand, to purchase what she termed " a real good dinner." Just as I had completed the last stitch of my work, Mrs Goodman returned, laden with spoil and exultant with her good news, which she could now assert as "positively true," for there it was in black and white in last night's Stab ! And so it was that when " her Jim " returned, and received his handsome dividends, we speedily removed to a pleasant villa residence, whioh was comfortably furnished, under Mrs Goodman's eye, by that well-known tradesman who never fails to give satisfaction to his patrons, Mr Jas. Browne. As. for those kind folks—the grocer, the butcher, and the i baker, with whom we had been in arrears all this dull time, — Mrs Goodman promptly paid them their bills, with sincere thanks for their patience and goodwill. " Now, 'Liza Jane," cried Mrs Goodman, to her eldest daughter, "you shall have a planner —the best .in .the shop. You can choose for yourself. So come along, Lucy," she added, "and give us your opinion." The sun was shining brightly, and many folks who, like ourselves, had been

wont to say " the times were hard," were chatting in the streets about the " splendid find" in the Moanatairi, and hoping that it might prove but the harbinger ot better times for the Thames Gold field.

As we passed along Mary Street, we noticed some men carrying a stretcher towards the Hospital, and on Mrs Good* man inquiring " who was hurt," we were informed that there had been an accident up at Goornbes' Bush,-and that this poor man had his leg crushed. - " Who is he ?" asked a bystander. " A new chum, I think," was the reply. "I heard a man call him Philip Ashcroft." " What is the matter, Lucy ?" inquired Mrs Goodman, as a cry I could not repress escaped my lips, and I turned deathly pale. •• Yon look as if you be 1 going to faint right away, that you do." I tried to explain that I'hilip Ashcroft had been an old friend of mine in Eng- j land, but I fear my words were rather , wild and incoherent—l was so surprised j and anxious about the poor sufferer. However, later in the day, Mr Goodman took me to the Hospital, and there, in very truth, lay my old friend Philip, hut, oh! bow changed. The oncehandsome face was thin and worn —the beautiful chestnut curls had changed to iron grey. Still, there was no doubt of bis identity, even as he lay in that unconscious state, with bis poor head bound up, where the falling tree had severely injured him. His leg was badly crushed, they told us, " but perhaps he might regain the use of it if —all went well." And as I sat beside him, the tears I could not restrain falling upon his poor wasted hand, he slowly opened his eyes, and fixing a look of glad recognition upon my face, murmured softly— " Lucy, my little maid, have you come back to me ?" Then the tired eyes closed again, and he relapsed into unconsciousness. # * * * # Six months later, I was sitting iv my own home—a pretty cottage that had been built and furnished with Moana tairi Gold, and by my side stood tny lover-husband— faithful, devoted Pbilip Ashcroft. He was still rather lame, but the poor, maimed limb grows stronger as the months roll by, and by and-bye I hope to see him able to walk without the help of a stick.

He has no need to labor for his daily bread, for those shares of his, which he deemed almost worthless, hate brought us a nice little competency, so I devote my whole time to waiting upon him, reading to him, and striving to make up to him as far as in me lay for all the years of suffering and hardship that are past. He does not like to speak much of that time for fear of grieving me, but a ,short sketch he gave mo before our marriage convinced me that had suffered far more than he allowed me to know. Nearly starved to death on that miserable rafi, where he beheld his father sink into that slumber from which there is no awaking, and rescued at last, when insensible to all around, hy a homeward bound vessel, in which he was taken back to England. For months he lay a helpless invalid in a London hospital, but at length he was able to write to his uncle in Cambridge, Waikato, relating the sad loss of all his relatives (as he believed) and his own forlorn condition. He obtained employment at a nursery garden in Kilburn, and here he remained until a letter reached him from bis uncle, advising him to come out to him as soon as possible, but adding that he was quite unable to send him any monetary assistance, having suffered much loss through native panics on the Waikato. So, poor Philip labored on patiently and perseveringly, often hindered by ill-health, as he never really recovered from the effects of the exposure on the raft. At last, he succeeded in saving enough to pay his passage out, and once more set sail for Auckland, which place he reached in safety, and went up the country to his uncle. _■ Here he stayed several years, and greatly offended his uncle by refusing to marry one of his daughters, who had a i great affection for him. Thus, matters became unpleasant, and at length Philip left Cambridge, and came down to the Thames, where he encountered a series of misfortunes, which reached their climax in the accident that brought his existence to my knowledge. Well, that is all past, and my Philip— for whom I at first entertained the deep est compassion (how true is the old saying that " pity is akin to love ")—is now the object of my sincerest affection. We are very happy together, Philip and I, in our pretty home, where shortly we expect to receive a visit from Mrs Rutherford, once Maggie Ashcroft. Mrs Ashcroft died some years ago, and Floss has removed with her family to Melbourne, where they are doing well. So that is my story, and Philip, leaning over my shoulder as I write these lines, remarks in his old tender loving manner, " Yes, Lucy, my little wife, and tell them j that your husband says that a loving little wife and happy home where two hearts blend in tenderest, truest sympathy fully compensates for all our trials in the past, and are infinitely more precious tban aught else earth can bestow, even all that could be purchased With—MOANATAIHI GOLD !" [the end.]