“Yes, yes.”
“No, no.” He gripped James’s hand for an instant, then rose and walked to the door. “That is all I wished to say, Tom.”
“James.”
“James. I just thought that you ought to know how matters stood. Go to her, my boy, go to her, and don’t let any thought of an old man’s broken dream keep you from pouring out what is in your heart. I am an old soldier, lad, an old soldier. I have learned to take the rough with the smooth. But I think—I think I will leave you now. I—I should—should like to be alone for a while. If you need me you will find me in the raspberry bushes.”
He had scarcely gone when James also left the room. He took his hat and stick and walked blindly out of the garden, he knew not whither. His brain was numbed. Then, as his powers of reasoning returned, he told himself that he should have foreseen this ghastly thing. If there was one type of character over which Leila J. Pinckney had been wont to spread herself, it was the pathetic guardian who loves his ward but relinquishes her to the younger man. No wonder the girl had broken off the engagement. Any elderly guardian who allowed himself to come within a mile of Honeysuckle Cottage was simply asking for it. And then, as he turned to walk back, a dull defiance gripped James. Why, he asked, should he be put upon in this manner? If the girl liked to throw over this man, why should he be the goat?
He saw his way clearly now. He just wouldn’t do it, that was all. And if they didn’t like it they could lump it.
Full of a new fortitude, he strode in at the gate. A tall, soldierly figure emerged from the raspberry bushes and came to meet him.
“Well?” said Colonel Carteret.
“Well?” said James defiantly.
“Am I to congratulate you?”
James caught his keen blue eye and hesitated. It was not going to be so simple as he had supposed.
“Well—er—” he said.
Into the keen blue eyes there came a look that James had not seen there before. It was the stern, hard look which—probably—had caused men to bestow upon this old soldier the name of Cold-Steel Carteret.
“You have not asked Rose to marry you?”
“Er—no; not yet.”
The keen blue eyes grew keener and bluer.
“Rodman,” said Colonel Carteret in a strange, quiet voice, “I have known that little girl since she was a tiny child. For years she has been all in all to me. Her father died in my arms and with his last breath bade me see that no harm came to his darling. I have nursed her through mumps, measles—aye, and chicken pox—and I live but for her happiness.” He paused, with a significance that made James’s toes curl. “Rodman,” he said, “do you know what I would do to any man who trifled with that little girl’s affections?” He reached in his hip pocket and an ugly-looking revolver glittered in the sunlight. “I would shoot him like a dog.”
“Like a dog?” faltered James.
“Like a dog,” said Colonel Carteret. He took James’s arm and turned him towards the house. “She is on the porch. Go to her. And if—” He broke off. “But tut!” he said in a kindlier tone. “I am doing you an injustice, my boy. I know it.”
“Oh, you are,” said James fervently.
“Your heart is in the right place.”
“Oh, absolutely,” said James.
“Then go to her, my boy. Later on you may have something to tell me. You will find me in the strawberry beds.”
It was very cool and fragrant on the porch. Overhead, little breezes played and laughed among the roses. Somewhere in the distance sheep bells tinkled, and in the shrubbery a thrush was singing its evensong.
Seated in her chair behind a wicker table laden with tea things, Rose Maynard watched James as he shambled up the path.
“Tea’s ready,” she called gaily. “Where is Uncle Henry?” A look of pity and distress flitted for a moment over her flower-like face. “Oh, I—I forgot,” she whispered.
“He is in the strawberry beds,” said James in a low voice.
She nodded unhappily.
“Of course, of course. Oh, why is life like this?” James heard her whisper.
He sat down. He looked at the girl. She was leaning back with closed eyes, and he thought he had never seen such a little squirt in his life. The idea of passing his remaining days in her society revolted him. He was stoutly opposed to the idea of marrying anyone; but if, as happens to the best of us, he ever were compelled to perform the wedding glide, he had always hoped it would be with some lady golf champion who would help him with his putting, and thus, by bringing his handicap down a notch or two, enable him to save something from the wreck, so to speak. But to link his lot with a girl who read his aunt’s books and liked them; a girl who could tolerate the presence of the dog Toto; a girl who clasped her hands in pretty, childish joy when she saw a nasturtium in bloom—it was too much. Nevertheless, he took her hand and began to speak.
“Miss Maynard—Rose—”
She opened her eyes and cast them down. A flush had come into her cheeks. The dog Toto at her side sat up and begged for cake, disregarded.
“Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a lonely man who lived in a cottage all by himself—”
He stopped. Was it James Rodman who was talking this bilge?
“Yes?” whispered the girl.
“—but one day there came to him out of nowhere a little fairy princess. She—”
He stopped again, but this time not because of the sheer shame of listening to his own voice. What caused him to interrupt his tale was the fact that at this moment the tea-table suddenly began to rise slowly in the air, tilting as
