Mr. Burrows was gravely disturbed. Sufficient had been his
responsibility ever since a dying sister bequeathed to him the
guardianship of her child. At first he had not taken the matter very
seriously. The girl was at school, doubtless being well cared for,
but presently, although every dollar he could raise was needed for
costly mining machinery, he had to pay her tuition fees. Then the
Lady Superintendent wrote, hinting deftly that her pupil had reached
an age when the chaperon might have a more desirable influence than a
teacher. He never read between the lines, he was too little a man of
the world to realise that a paying pupil would not be unacceptable to
any lady superintendent so long as the young person was docile. The
young person in question was anything but docile, as Mr. Burrows
found to his grief when Miss Violet came to rule himself and his mine
with a rod of iron. Certainly she cost less at a time of straitened
means than his late Chinese cook; but then, she was such a nuisance.
He loved her not at all, his affections being wholly devoted to
certain patented steel fans in a cylinder. Unlike the steel fans,
she set his will at naught, ignored his rules, his regulations, his
beautifully machine-made precepts, distracted him with interruptions,
pulled his ear, demanded new frocks which were quite beyond his
means, and finally, to crown her misdemeanours, fell in love. His
cylinder never fell in love, or, if it conceived so indelicate a line
of action, would certainly refrain from two several and concurrent
flirtations.
Miss Violet seemed bound by no rules, subject to no conceivable laws,
therefore, like that nonsensical abstraction, Religion, she was
beyond the pale of reasonable study. Not being acquainted with the
factors of the love problem, or dealing in the abstruse mathematics
of whims, Mr. Burrows blandly ignored the whole subject for six
weeks; consequently, when circumstances compelled him to bring to
bear the forces of his intellect, he was just six weeks too late. So
far as he could see, which was not quite to the end of his nose, he
then found the facts somewhat as follows.
Miss Violet was in love, but whether with young Ramsay, or with that
big policeman, or with both at once, was a matter of no moment.
Inasmuch as Mr. Burrows had reached the age of fifty without loving
anybody better than himself, Miss Violet's behaviour was at once
ridiculous and unnatural. She was only nineteen, a child fresh from
school, her vocation in life to cook his meals, make his bed, keep
her tongue from chatter and her fingers from his ears. (The fact
that his ears were large and seductively ugly could not palliate the
young woman's mania for stroking them.) In short, Miss Violet had no
right to love, and, as to marrying, her duty was to himself. Almost
with tears in his eyes he pictured the loneliness to which she would
selfishly consign him if she married. She should not marry--it would
not be good for her.
Then there was the big policeman, who never failed to spend his
Sundays hard by at the Tough Nut Claim. Mr. Burrows, priding himself
on his powers of observation, found something furtive, something
underhand and dishonourable in the way that policeman avoided his own
hospitality. He had written to the Officer Commanding at Wild Horse
Creek, protesting on behalf of the "mining population" against weekly
visits of a disreputable character to the Throne Mining Camp. This
took effect upon the Colonel, who counted any disparagement of his
men as a personal affront to himself, and, pending the chastisement
of the writer, saw that La Mancha never asked in vain for Sunday's
leave.
And, last element of the love problem, Mr. Ramsay, who should have
been making an exhaustive study of mine and mill for his father's
firm, spent the time sulking about the hills. A workhouse pauper who
has dropped a penny down a grating could not have looked more forlorn.
So two months went by. Miss Violet very demure, like a kitten after
its first mouse; the Blackguard spending every Saturday and Sunday
night in the saddle to snatch brief hours for courtship; the
Tenderfoot perched in desolate places brooding on suicide.
Then of a sudden Mr. Ramsay became demurely expectant, and Miss
Violet unnaturally gay. Some new absurdity was in the wind, so Mr.
Burrows, with the gingerly air of one broaching a gift of untasted
wine, had a few words with his niece.
"Come here, Violet."
"Yes, Uncle."
"What does all this mean?"
"Nothing, Uncle."
"That policeman did not come to the Tough Nut Claim on Sunday."
"Didn't he, Uncle?"
"Why didn't he come?"
"I'm sure I don't know. He doesn't belong to me. Do you want him
very much, Uncle?"
"Want him? Of course, I don't want him. What should I want him for?
Now, answer me this--what are your intentions with regard to Mr.
Ramsay?"
"I was just thinking about that." She perched on the table beside
him. "The saucepan's too small, you see. Would you like him
poached?"
Since there was but little change to be got out of Miss Violet, Mr.
Burrows went off fuming and fussing in search of his guest, who was
discovered in a state of innocent bliss, fishing with rod and line
from the edge of the great precipice.
"What are you doing?"
"Hush, you'll disturb the swallows. One of them pecked my worm."
"Haw--ah--indeed." Mr. Burrows sat down on the next rock, grunting.
"Mister Ramsay, I know that these matters are delicate, and require
to be dealt with by a man of tact."
"Indeed they do--they won't even look at a fly."
"I am not alluding to birds, Mr. Ramsay. May I ask what your
intentions are with regard to my niece?"
"Eh?" Mr. Ramsay glanced at the other sideways. "I say, would you
mind very much if I were to--to pay my addresses to Miss Violet?"
"Certainly not, my dear Mr. Ramsay. The human affection always meets
with my warmest approbation--the--in fact, my very warmest
approbation. Let me shake you by the hand."
"I wouldn't, if I were you--fact is--worms, you know. I hope you're
not sitting on any of them?"
Mr. Burrows' approbation of the human affections was suddenly
mitigated; he jumped up with a sudden but strictly philosophical
remark--but seeing that this matter of the worms was a false alarm,
he breathed more freely, and, grunting again, sat down.
"No, that's all right!" the Tenderfoot felt very much relieved. "You
haven't spoilt one of them. I ought to tell you, though,--you were
so busy I didn't like to mention it before,--that we're engaged."
"Since when, my dear young friend?"
"Oh, months ago--it must be supper time. Why don't they bite? I
love her desperately."
"Your sentiments do you justice. The alliance between our families
will do much, my young friend, to strengthen the material bonds which
are about to so closely unite my interests to those of your respected
father. The brilliant future in store for the Burrows-Ramsay Mining
& Milling Syndicate Limited"--
"By George," cried the Tenderfoot joyfully, while the rod jerked in
his hand, "I've got a bite!"