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

Many months passed 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 Dick--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 lassie, 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.

She went singing into the room.

"Pa, dear," she cried merrily; "Uncle-pa, dinner is all beautifully ready!"

"Come, Unky-pa. How sound you sleep!"

Then a terror crept up from the earth, as it were, and a cold hand seemed to clutch her heart.

She ran out of the room.

"Oh, Auntie-ma!" she cried, "come, come quickly, pa won't wake, nor speak!"

Heigho! the summons had come, and dear "Uncle-pa" would never, never wake again.

This is a short chapter, but it is too sad to continue.

So falls the curtain on the first act of this life-drama.