Mr Boxall was fat, and rather plain, and had a glass eye; that did not matter in the least to the General. Had you remonstrated with him, he would probably have answered you, “Dash, it, sir—the girl’s not going to marry the fellow’s glass eye! He has seven thousand a year, and a tin mine; what more do you want? He doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t play cards, he doesn’t read novels or fritter his time away in rubbish; what more do you want? He’s strong on army reform, and he’s sound on the tariff question; what more do you want? I’ve made up my mind she shall marry him, and marry him she will, if he had a hundred glass eyes—what do you mean, sir, by shoving your oar in and mixing and meddling in other people’s businesses?”
Dicky knew his uncle, and that is why he felt it to be impossible to marry her in the ordinary fashion. The only chance was to make a runaway match of it, and do it quick. Yet there were great difficulties in the way. Tullagh station was fifteen miles from Glen Druid. Violet was watched. To get a moment’s conversation with her alone was a most difficult business.
If Violet and he were missed for an hour, search would inevitably be made for them; they would be pursued and captured.
“Mr Fanshawe, sir!”
Mr Fanshawe turned in his chair with a start. The door was open, and Patsy was standing in the doorway.
Patsy had the appearance of a sleep-walker burthened with a nightmare.
“Hulloo!” said Mr Fanshawe. “What’s the matter—what the deuce——”
“Mr Fanshawe, sir,” said Patsy, then he paused, rubbed his knuckles in his eyes and broke out, blubbering. “It’s I that am in the thruble and all—it’s I that am in the thruble and all,” blubbered Patsy,—“thinkin’ of yiz lyin’ murthered in your beds, and the young lady and the childer! Oh, wirra, wirra! it’s ten fut under the sod I wish I was before I ever see this day!”
“God bless the boy!” said Mr Fanshawe. “What on earth has happened? Who’s murdering who, and what’s it all about?”
“I didn’t swear not to tell on thim—bad luck to thim!” said Patsy, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and suppressing his sobs. “It’s the burgulars I tould you of, Mr Fanshawe.”