General Grampound in make, shape, manner, voice and character was exactly like the General one meets on the stage in a farce. One meets numerous people in the course of one’s journey through the world who seem to have strayed into life from a farce, and, as a rule, they are very unpleasant people to deal with—play their parts indifferently well, and sometimes stray out of the world leaving a tragedy behind them.

General Grampound had been winding himself up. After his cropper in the ditch he had given up the chase and returned home. He had been winding himself up, but, as a matter of fact, he did not want much winding.

In this respect—and some others—the old gentleman very much resembled Selina.

During the hour before luncheon he had been constructing set speeches with which to greet his nephew and his ward on their return. It was considerably to his disgust when, just before the luncheon gong rang, the “tub” containing Violet, the children and Patsy—all the picture of happy innocence—drove up to the front steps.

“Oh, there you are!” cried Miss Lestrange, glancing up at her guardian, who had opened the hall door and was standing on the top step. “What became of you?”

“Where’s Richard?” asked the General. “I called to you to stop. He had no right to go dragging you through that hedge. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” said Violet. “I met the governess-cart, and they gave me a lift. Did you see the hare?”

“No,” said the General, glaring at the “tub” and its occupants, “I saw no hare. Look at that pony, all of a lather. What do you mean by driving cattle in that fashion, sir—eh?”

“I wasn’t dhrivin’ no cattle, sir,” replied Patsy, who had for General Grampound a feeling compounded in about equal parts of hatred and fear. “Punch always lathers if you dhrive him beyand a walk.”

“Come on, come on,” said the old gentleman, turning to Violet, “get your hat off—get yourself ready, the luncheon is waiting—you were late for breakfast——”

“I wasn’t,” said Violet; “I was down before you.”

“I have repeatedly said,” went on the elder, “that to make a hotel of another person’s house, rushing out at all hours and back to meals at all hours, is deuced bad form. I have——”

The roar of the gong cut him short, and Violet rushed upstairs to change her hat.

“Had a good run?” asked Uncle Molyneux at luncheon.

“Had a good what?” asked General Grampound.

“Run—beagles, you know.”

“I have,” said Dicky, who had just returned, answering the question and slipping into his seat both at the same time, “No—chops, please—what became of you?”

“I met the governess-cart,” replied Violet, “and came home in it.”

“Where’s Boxall?” asked Uncle Molyneux.

“Mr Boxall is not feeling very well, sir, and will not be down to luncheon,” said old James.

Patsy, who had given the pony in charge of the stable lad, given his face a “lick of a towel,” and assumed duty as distributer of mashed potatoes, was passing along pursuing his functions at the opposite side of the table to Mr Fanshawe.

As James gave this information, Mr Fanshawe saw the ghost of a grin pass across Patsy’s face and vanish.

“I’ll go up and see him after luncheon,” said the General. “I expect that tumble into the ditch has shaken him up?”

“Did Mr Boxall follow the hounds?” asked Lady Molyneux.

“No; it was at the meet,” replied the General. “A ruffian hit him on the side of the head with a bag of soot. Egad, I thought his neck was broken!”

“Oh,” said Lady Molyneux. She said no more, and went on with her luncheon. It was her first visit to Ireland. Beyond milliners’ bills, pug dogs, three square meals a day, Debrett, and the Almanach de Gotha, the world had little to interest Lady Molyneux. She thought, perhaps, that to be half stunned with a bag of soot was a proper accompaniment to an Irish meet of the hounds; at all events, she did not express a contrary opinion by word or manner.

After luncheon the General, having enquired which was Mr Boxall’s room, went up and knocked at the door.

“Come in,” answered a voice. “Who’s there?”

General Grampound opened the door and entered.

Mr Boxall was in bed. He was lying with his face to the wall, the window blind was down; the place had the appearance of a sick-room.

“Hullo!” cried the General. “What’s all this?”

“I think I have the influenza,” said Mr Boxall, without turning to answer.

“Influenza? Why, you were all right a few hours ago. Sure it wasn’t the blow that chap gave you?”

“No, no,” said the Member of Parliament, “that had nothing to do with it—only a scratch. It’s in my bones; I felt it coming on this morning. I oughtn’t to have gone to that confounded meet.”

“Have a doctor?”

“No thanks—I say——”

“Yes?”

“I want a telegram sent.”

“Yes?”

“I suppose one can send a telegram in this confounded country?”

“Yes; there’s an office in the village.”

“You’ll find some forms in my writing-case on the table; write it for me, like a good fellow.”

“Anything I can do for you, Boxall, will give me the sincerest pleasure,” said General Grampound, opening the writing-case. “They are all deucedly sorry to hear of your being laid up—enquiring after you at lunch and all that, specially a certain young lady—hum——”

“Indeed!” said Mr Boxall, without emotion; then with a sudden snarl: “I wish I could telegraph myself out of this infernal place! Ireland for the Irish—egad, it’s the only place for them—den of wild beasts!”

“I’ve always said myself the only thing for Ireland was the old Duke’s—the great Duke’s suggestion,” said General Grampound, spreading out the telegraph form. “Sink it for half an hour in the sea and let the beggars drown like rats or swim to America. Here’s the telegraph form—what’s your message?”

“Write,” said Mr Boxall, after a moment’s consideration—“write, ‘Hawksley, Oxford St., London.’”

The General did as he was directed.

“Got that done?” asked Mr Boxall.

“Yes.”

“Now write—let me see—wait a moment—yes—write,

“‘Send another, same colour and size, immediately—urgent.—Richard Boxall, Glen Druid House, Mid Meath, Ireland.’”

“‘Ireland’?” said the General. “That all?”

“Yes—quite enough. It’s about a coat—will you see that a special messenger takes it to the office at once?”

“I will,” said the General, rising to go. “Can I get you anything—some gruel or beef-tea?”

“No thanks—see here!”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let that fool of a red-headed boy take the message; he’s sure to make a muddle of it.”

“I’ll see to that.”

“One moment,” said Mr Boxall. “You said they were asking after me downstairs.”

“Rather!”

“Was she—um——”

“She was,” replied General Grampound to this somewhat cryptic enquiry. “Seemed regularly upset. I’m not half blind, Boxall, like some people; I can see through a brick wall as far as most, and I don’t want to be personal—I don’t want to be premature—I don’t want to pretend to know more than I ought to know, but there’s a deuced lucky dog in this room at present, and he’s not me, Boxall.”

“Thanks,” said the lucky dog, shifting about restlessly in bed. “I know you’re a good friend, Grampound. Send that message off at once, like a good fellow. How long does it take a parcel to reach this place from London by post?”

“Parcel post or letter post?”

“Letter post.”

“Oh, a day or two.”

“Send the message off at once.”

“I will.”

Meanwhile Mr Fanshawe had been writing three important letters in the library. When he had finished and carefully sealed them, he placed them one on top of the other, and looked at his watch.

Dicky had almost forgotten the burglar he was going to trap that night. The other business consumed most of his superfluous energy and thoughts. The readiness with which Violet Lestrange had fallen in with his views might have given a cold-blooded man of the world pause, for, once a girl begins smashing conventions, who knows where she will stop? But Mr Fanshawe, wise in his love, felt no uneasiness on this score; the thing that worried him was the fifteen Irish miles between Glen Druid and Tullagh station.

The three letters he had just written would make everything all right at the other end. This was the hot end of the poker, and it had to be grasped.

Patsy was the person who would help him to grasp it. Patsy he felt to be a tower of strength and ‘cuteness’, if such a simile is permissible. And, rising from the writing-table and putting the letters in his pocket, he went to find Patsy. He had not far to go, for as he came into the big hall Patsy was crossing it with a tray in hand.

“Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, “when does the post go out?”

“If you stick your letters in the letter-box be the hall door, sir,” said Patsy, “it will be cleared in half an hour. Jim Murphy takes the letter-bag to Castle Knock.”

“Right!” said Mr Fanshawe. “And, see here, I want to have a shot at the rabbits before dark. I’m going to stroll down to the woods. Rake out a bag to put the cartridges in, and stick on a cap; I want you to follow me.”

“Right, sir,” said Patsy; then, glancing round to see that no one was listening; “I’ve got the pulley, and the screws for it, Mr Fanshawe, and the ould rope from the flagstaff, and all ready for fixing.”

“Good!” said Mr Fanshawe. “And, see here, we’ll want help; do you know any one who could be trusted?”

“Larry, the stable-man, is the chap you want, sir; he’s as strong as an ox, and for half a crown he’d be as dumb as a coffin board.”

“Very well, you can arrange with him. Now cut off and get the bag.”

He went to his room and took a Boss double-barrelled choke bore from its case, fitted it together, put it under his arm, put on a cap, and joined Patsy, who was waiting in the hall with the cartridges and the bag.

“Down be the woods to the right, sir,” said Patsy, as he trotted beside him. “If you sit be the hedge still as a stone, they’ll be poppin’ out all around you and playin’ in the grass.”

But Mr Fanshawe did not care for the prospect of sitting still as a stone under a hedge and potting unsuspecting rabbits playing in the grass.

“There’s a bit of water, down beyond these woods to the right,” said he.

“There is, sir.”

“I’ll go that way—may have a chance of a duck. See here, Patsy!”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m in a bit of a fix, Patsy, and you may be able to help.”

“And what’s the fix, sir?” asked Patsy.

“You know the young lady you gave the note to this morning—by the way, how did you give it?”

“I tried to shove it undher her door, sir.”

“Yes?”

“It wouldn’t go, so I give a knock. ‘Who’s there?’ says she. ‘No one,’ says I; ‘it’s only hot wather I’m bringin’ you,’ for you see, sir, the ould missis, her ladyship, was in the next room, and she’s not as deaf as she looks, and it’s afraid I was, every minit, her door’d open, and she and her ear-trumpet come out in the passidge. ‘I have hot wather,’ says she. ‘Niver mind,’ says I, ‘this is bether. Open the door, for the love of God, for I can’t get it under the door, unless I rowl it up and shove it through the keyhole.’ Wid that she opens the door a crack and shoves her head out. ‘Who’s it from?’ she says. ‘I don’t know,’ says I; ‘it’s just a lether I found on the stairs I thought might belong to you.’ ‘Thanks,’ says she, ‘it does,’ and wid that she shut the door, and I left her.”

“Well, see here, Patsy!”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m going to marry Miss Lestrange.”

“Faith, and I guessed that,” said Patsy; “and it’s I that’d be joyful to dance at your weddin’, sir.”

“There won’t be any dancing in the business,” said Mr Fanshawe grimly. And here, strangely enough, he was perfectly wrong, albeit the dancing was to be of a more than fantastic character. “You know Mr Boxall, Patsy?”

“The Mimber of Parlymint?”

“Yes. Well, he wants to marry Miss Lestrange; and the worst, of it is, Patsy, that my uncle, General Grampound, wants him to marry her, too.”

Patsy chuckled.

“Sure, he’s one eye short,” said he.

“That may be,” replied Mr Fanshawe, “but Mr Boxall is very rich, and, the fact of the matter is, I have determined to marry Miss Lestrange without asking any one’s opinion or permission. The fact of the matter is, I am going to run away with her, Patsy, and marry her in Dublin; the bother is how to get to the station without being caught.”

“What o’clock was you thinkin’ of runnin’ off wid her, sir?” asked Patsy, in the most matter-of-fact tone in the world.

“The night express from Carlow goes through Tullagh station at four o’clock in the morning. I have written to the manager of the railway to have it stopped on Friday morning. The question is how are we to get from here to the station—we can’t walk.”

“I was thinkin’, sir, I might get the ould trap from the inn at Castle Knock and meet yiz at the cross-roads; but sure, if wind of it got about, the whole county would be out to give yiz a send-off.”

“That wouldn’t do,” said Mr Fanshawe. “This isn’t a business one wants old slippers and rice mixed up with.”

“No, sir; and Mrs Lyburn, the lan’lady of the inn, is’nt to be thrusted; she’s a whisperin’ gallery for lettin’ out saycrets. I’m thinkin’ the best way is to harness Fly-by-night to the dogcart; the moon’s near the full, it’s a straight road to Tullagh, and the divil on a dhromedary wouldn’t catch the ould mare wanst she has the hard high-road undher her hoofs. The only thing, sir——”

“Yes?”

“The ould Gineral’s bedroom window is over the stable-yard.”

“Oh, it is, is it?”

“Yes, sir; his window is next to Mr Boxall’s, so it’s how to get the dogcart out of the coach-house, and the ould mare out of the stable, and the two hitched together and out of the yard that’s thrublin’ me.”

“Yes,” said Mr Fanshawe, “that’s the rub, for if the General heard us and looked out of the window, we’d be done for.”

“I know, sir!” said Patsy.

“Yes?”

“We can lay down straw—straw the yard right to the corner where you can get on the turf. Larry Lyburn will do it between twelve and wan o’clock in the mornin’, and you can start be two.”

“Begad, Patsy’s that’s not a bad idea; they do it in London in the streets, before houses, when people are sick. But can Larry be trusted?”

“Larry’s to be thrusted wid everything but drink, sir,” said Patsy. “He’ll straw the yard, and harness the ould mare and all, if I give him the word.”

“Well, I’ll give him a couple of sovereigns if he does the thing properly; you can tell him that.”

Mr Fanshawe paused and looked around him. They had reached the edge of a large pool with sedgy banks; the waters of the pool reflected the cold light of the winter sunset.

“Look, sir!” cried Patsy.

A wild duck and drake were flying towards them, across the pool. They came on, seemingly heedless of the human beings on the bank. Their flight seemed hurried and distressed. Overhead they passed, and Mr Fanshawe raised his gun. The report echoed from the woods, and the duck and her mate passed on unscathed, but the hawk that had been pursuing them came whirtling from the sky, and fell on the ground a few yards away from the marksman.

“Faith, that was a fine shot,” said Patsy, as he picked up the corpse.

“There are Grampounds even amongst birds,” muttered Dicky to himself, as he drew the unfired cartridge and the empty case from his gun. “Come, Patsy, I’m off back; there’s no use hanging about after duck, for we have no dog to retrieve them with.”

“Let the stable chap be in your room at ten, Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, as he went up the front steps, “to help to fix up the fixings for this burglar chap, but mind you tell him not to say a word to any one. I’ll come down at ten to help you—twelve o’clock the gentleman said he’d call, didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir,” said Patsy. “And, Mr Fanshawe!”

“Yes?”

“I forgot to tell you, sir, you needn’t be afear’d of Mr Boxall for the next few days.”

“How’s that?”

“When Bob Mahony hit him the skelp on the head wid the sut bag, his eye popped out of his head on the road.”

“His what?—Oh, I remember——”

“Finders is keepers, sir,” said Patsy, with a grin.

“Why, good heavens—you don’t mean to say——”

“I’ve got his eye in me pocket, sir,” said Patsy in a hoarse whisper. “He’s sint a telegram for another wan, but till it comes he’s tethered to his bed like a horse to a——”

“That’s enough—that’s enough,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Here’s half a crown for you, Patsy, for—carrying my cartridges.”

“Now, if Patsy was in Parliament instead of Boxall,” thought Mr Fanshawe, as he went to his room, “he’d be Prime Minister before Boxall had learned to wash glasses and carry dishes if he was suddenly turned into a page-boy like Patsy. Patsy, if he did nothing else, would be pretty sure to catch the Speaker’s eye. We’ll take Patsy with us, begad, when we levant. Patsy is far, far too valuable an article to be left wasting his fragrance here. With Violet as a wife, and Patsy as a servant, a man ought to go to the top of the apple tree. Decidedly I’m in luck.”

He was in the act of lighting a cigarette when a tap came to the door, followed by little Lord Gawdor’s voice.

“Mr Fanshawe!”

“Hullo!”

“We’re decoratin’ the nursery for Christmas; come and help.”

“Like a rocket!” replied Dicky; “I’ll be there in two minutes, when I’ve finished this cigarette.”