THE SECRET OF THE CLIFFE.

Thames Advertiser, Volume XXVI, Issue 8022, 15 January 1895, Page 1

THE SECRET OF THE CLIFFE.

CHAfTEMU, V; (Continued) " We'd look over it now, wife," Aaron said when she told liini; " maybi there'll be something tliere about tlje speculation—he never would tell irie aught about Thet, mysterious loss of Luke's money bad puzzled Aaron over since, and he longed to know in what .>vay liia savings had disappeared. " Take it,then," Betsy said,'putting the case into his hand make out any writing that's 1 shall," Aaron cut the strap that was rouud the cover, and a lot of letters and papers fell out upon the table. The first he took up was a pencil letter in a female hand, and bore date fche.'day before v tbe unfortunate,'' Barcelona" collision:: 4

"Mr DAifLrxGjpFot' the last tiule I call, you by that name—for the last time I write toyou, Luke. I cannot take the course //om planned for me, for lie has found it out, and I am in fear of iny life. Instead of New Zealand I shall go to Brisbane—it's "all one to me, you will not be there. The 4 Barcelona' calls here to-morrow and I have taken my passage. There will be no' Mrs Cator ' here wltgn you call, but' Mary Grace' will be far out at sea, praying for. you with' allhpr heart and soul. Forget me, •dear Luke, and forgive all the misery I have unintentionally-brought upon you. I send )'ou back that worthless bit of;paper; burn it how I tarn gone— t hayen't the heart: somehow, it seemed like destroying - something that once opened the gates of heaven. God bless you and forgive him. ; " Erom your unhappy G. C.", . ' The'enolosure was a certificate of a marriage at an obscure church in Plymouth, -between Luke Pengelly and Grace, Cator, widow, and Aaron.and liis wifi stared .at it in. bewilder? 'i amazement.

"It's no dream," Aaron said at length.. " It!s real.:;.bnt she call it a worthless bit of paper ?"■ The contents of the pocket,-book told fciitjnnylfy; Gut iJorrow;can be very quickly told. ... He had mfct Grace Cator .iii Plymouth, l&rniiig- her living by her needle,,and had fallen in love with her', as men w{iyjn a blind, unreasoning fashion, till he,-almost thought himself bewitched; It would have; been the same-had -tie his passion been a worthless, igno"ant,|abandoned. wbrnari—the spell was upon him, and bo must succumb—but Grace .Cator

was none of fcljese; slfe was a modest industrious, well brought up girl, for g.he ! was little more, though a widow. She was an. orphan, and had gone rery young to service from the school \vhere;she had be.en t rained, and had left her place at eighteen to -marry a •pecious, gpod-for-notliing soldier,' with the tongue of a gentleman and the heart of a brute. 'In six -months' slie was a deserted wife, rueing the day that she had ever listened to his flattering tongue—in six more she was a widow, her husband having been killed, in attempting to" desert from a remote barrack ,iu Irelaud. She.put on her weeds with a thankful heart, rfnd Was at peace, 'and in twelve months tflpro she lmd put her tframl^in'-Luke. Pejigßiy;?. at theaitaiy taken liiin " jiji'|§ir v for-worse, ! for richer for tliat all I the riches the world could offer were nothing to. his loye. v ijiiko.lcept his wooing '••'secret;..'lie kni'w that his parents Imd fixed upon a w,ife for .him in their own miiUls, &jjd;iie>ktie\v the prejudice Against' '"iforeigppi's 1 ■;, that pre vailecL among 1

his people, Thoy could not help lof» iiijj Gmcpj Ins w'iia mi re, nndywlien«th.e. .. thins was ovim'—w liy it wns done, and , nothing could ftltct* it. He could • spare a few davs for a honeymoon, and 't! en h.e woul I j?o borne and pave the way with his nio'ber for the advent of a new daughter. , , 7 Three dfiys after- the a dirty, disreputiblc,:*fd runken;%man. came to their lodging 'denianded his wife—George Oator, in the flesh] « —and their dream of, bliss was orer. That Grace -was- innocent of any , - knowledge of the brute's existence, Luke was soon /fully - convinced; no one knew he was alive. The man who bad been killed was wearing his jfickct through a blunder, aud was about, the same height and complexion. His face had been much ,shattered by Hie bullet, fliidt hey had buried liim-as Georpe Cator, without, inuch inquiry. "Luke, and Grace must part, and they did;' there must be nothing between them any more, till it should ■ • jilease Heaven to take the wretched • deserter out of the way.

■WI nit' f'lie time that, followed was to Grace, Luke' could only guess, till she she wrote to liini pftyinjurthat she had a little snn.hisjphild, nnd that'she had' hidden from her husband .under a feigned name. Luke sent lier help— ho loved her dearly still, poor lad

'Vfis tlio fcporu In I ion in which lie suhk his ntcans), and again her husband loiuni itiv;. nut. 'illen she took council 'witli Luke, and'they resolved that she should <ro abroad , make a *iew life on the other side of the world for herself and her baby \ 'The porting would'most likely be forever, for Luke was not the man to oei'siiadc her into further sin'-for the sa.l>e. of his love, nnd it nearly broke ' both,.their hearts. All his money was pinned in safe hands for- her—it was all he could do—and she was to sail for Auckland at a given time. The htirried note his father had just vend was all the tidings that ever cauielo lijiko'Pengelly. afterwards of his ill-faled love. FJ'o had. down in- the 'Jhirrehina 1 jir Miiry Grace, and il was her Ijocfy that sunk iiwiiy iroiii the - spnr when his hand ]iad cut the rope hy .which (lie little child they rescued had been fastened to it. . ' :

CHAIM'KR XIII. FADING AWAY. Aaiion. Pengellv laid down fclio papers and letters when lie came to the- last of them, and looked at his wife. -' It can't be true!' she said. llt is,' he replied, in the firm tone ofconviction. •We venptmueh need to look further tlian the little lad's face - he's our own flesh and blood, wife, there s no doubt of it;' ( What, shall we do?'. Betsy asked, , her lips quivering and her shapely old . hands plucking, at one another in nervous agitation/ 'We mun tell th'-' Aaron, and the boy's schooling 11 he slopped maybie. He thinks Reuben is just. a friendless ■ orphan, and now it's different.' ' ' 'Of course it's 'different.,';' and we'll : tell //im,' Aaron said simply, ' but no one else. • There's no need to set all the town talking—the fancy of the little un's.being like our poor Luke -has died out; there's no need to wake it up again as I can see.' 'But the squire 'II stop bis schooling and his nice clothes, and folks'll talk then. ' . ' Let them—maybe we can make a shift to school him ourselves and find him in good clothes, too; but we'll bide a day or two before we say any- j thing to anybody. I'll go to Plymouth my-self to-morrow and find out the truth of this,' touching the certificate as be spoke;' it's none s long ago but folks '11 remember it well enough,' It seemed like a dream to Betsy all the next day while her. husband was away. Luke gone, dead and buried, never more to come bustling in with .His hearty young voice and his bright . smile, ever thoughtful for hismother, and helpful to her in any way a man could turn his hand to. And.he had been married, or thought he had, poor hoy, and she had never known it, and had been making plana for him in happy ignorance. But he was dead now—dead—the word seemed to falj upon her heart like a lump of ice, and she could never see him of hear how all this had come about . . Little Reuben ran in and out all day, prattling to her in childish unconsciousness of the pain lie was causing, of the funeral and the grand doings thereat, and of his, own new clothes and little /Sara's companionship. He did not know how every tone of his voice, every play, of his mobile features, every attitude of his little limbs went like a stab to her heart, of the' mammie* whom he loved as dearly as though she wore in ■very deed his own mother. .

He wsis so .like what Luke had been—better dressed and cared for

for they had been very poor in Lor < dead son's.babydays, but' the living . image in fiice and limb pf the boy :■fcbey had lost, and Betsy could only clasp him to.lier liearfc and cry over him as if her' tears would rain on for * ever, Aaron was away two days—the railway had not made Plymouth easy of access at this part of our story, and it was a weary five hours' journey for humble foil', either on foot or by van, theonly public conveyance carryingpassengers between the two places. ; ,No boats were going at this time of year, or Aaron would have found the 1 - ourney easyenough, He walked home, and' came back late at'niglifc weary and troublcd-lookiug, ' .■ (To'tie continued k-momw'.)