The other started up as a loud voice hailed the deck:

"Any more for the sh.o.r.e!"

"I am going now," he said. "Good-bye, old man, and remember my last words: not one single drop of blood shed!"

"I understand, and will obey to the letter. Obedience pays."

"True; and you shall find it so. Good-bye!"

"_A Dios!_" said the other.

The last bell was struck, and the gangway was hauled on sh.o.r.e.

The great ship _Benedict_ was that night rolling and tossing about on the waves of the Irish Channel.

Jake Solomons acquainted Roland and Peggy with the contents of this last letter, and greatly did the latter wonder what the new overseer would be like, and if she should love him or not.

For Peggy had a soft little heart of her own, and was always prepared to be friendly with anyone who, according to her idea, was nice.

Jake took his charges all round the city next day and showed them the sights of what is now one of the most beautiful towns in South America.

The gardens, the fountains, the churches and palaces, the flowers and fruit, and feathery palm-trees, all things indeed spoke of delightfulness, and calm, and peace.

And far beyond and behind all this was the boundless forest primeval.

This was not their last drive through the city, and this good fellow Jake, though his business took him from home most of the day, delighted to take the children to every place of amus.e.m.e.nt he could think of. But despite all this, these children of the forest wilds began to long for home, and very much rejoiced were they when one evening, after dinner, Jake told them they should start on the morrow for Bona Vista, near to which town the little steamer lay, and so up the great river and home.

Jake had done all his business, and done it satisfactorily, and could return to the old plantation and Burnley Hall with a light and cheerful heart.

He had even sold the mine, although it was not to be worked for some time to come.

CHAPTER VII--"A COLD HAND SEEMED TO CLUTCH HER HEART"

Many months pa.s.sed away pleasantly and happily enough on the old plantation. The children--Roland, by the way, would hardly have liked to be called a child now--were, of course, under the able tuition of Mr.

Simons, but in addition Peggy had a governess, imported directly from Para.

This was a dark-eyed Spanish girl, very piquant and pretty, who talked French well, and played on both the guitar and piano.

Tom St. Clair had not only his boy's welfare, but his niece's, or adopted daughter's, also at heart.

It would be some years yet before she arrived at the age of sweet seventeen, but when she did, her uncle determined to sell off or realize on his plantation, his goods and chattels, and sail across the seas once more to dear old Cornwall and the real Burnley Hall.

He looked forward to that time as the weary worker in stuffy towns or cities does to a summer holiday.

There is excitement enough in money-making, it is like an exhilarating game of billiards or whist, but it is apt to become tiresome.

And Tom St. Clair was often overtired and weary. He was always glad when he reached home at night to his rocking-chair and a good dinner, after toiling all day in the recently-started india-rubber-forest works.

But Mr. Peter took a vast deal of labour off his hands.

Mr. Peter, or Don Pedro, ingratiated himself with nearly everyone from the first, and seemed to take to the work as if to the manner born.

There were three individuals, however, who could not like him, strange to say; these were Peggy herself, Benee the Indian who had guided them through the forest when lost, and who had remained on the estate ever since, while the third was Brawn, the Irish wolf-hound.

The dog showed his teeth if Peter tried even to caress him.

Both Roland and d.i.c.k--the latter was a very frequent visitor--got on very well with Peter--trusted him thoroughly.

"How is it, Benee," said Roland one day to the Indian, "that you do not love Don Pedro?"

Benee spat on the ground and stamped his foot.

"I watch he eye," the semi-savage replied. "He one very bad man. Some day you know plenty moochee foh true."

"Well," said Tom one evening as he and his wife sat alone in the verandah together, "I do long to get back to England. I am tired, dear wife--my heart is weak why should we remain here over two years more?

We are wealthy enough, and I promise myself and you, dear, many long years of health and happiness yet in the old country."

He paused and smoked a little; then, after watching for a few moments the fireflies that flitted from bush to bush, he stretched his left arm out and rested his hand on his wife's lap.

Some impulse seized her. She took it and pressed it to her lips. But a tear trickled down her cheek as she did so.

Lovers still this couple were, though nearly twenty years had elapsed since he led her, a bonnie, buxom, blushing la.s.sie, to the altar.

But now in a sweet, low, but somewhat sad voice he sang a verse of that dear old song--"We have lived and loved together":--

"We have lived and loved together Through many changing years, We have shared each other's gladness And dried each other's tears.

I have never known a sorrow That was long unsoothed by thee, For thy smile can make a summer Where darkness else would be.

Mrs. St. Clair would never forget that evening on the star-lit lawn, nor the flitting, little fire-insects, nor her husband's voice.

Is it not just when we expect it least that sorrow sometimes falls suddenly upon us, hiding or eclipsing all our promised happiness and joy?

I have now to write a pitiful part of my too true story, but it must be done.

Next evening St. Clair rode home an hour earlier.

He complained of feeling more tired than usual, and said he would lie down on the drawing-room sofa until dinner was ready.

Peggy went singing along the hall to call him at the appointed time.