The reply, which arrived in a day or two, appeared from its redundancy and incoherence to be the composition of Miss Yvette Seymour Stukeley, and bade Major Decies either send or bring the infant Damocles to Monksmead immediately.
The Major decided to apply forthwith for such privilege-leave and furlough as were due to him, and to proceed to England with the boy. It would be as well that his great-uncle should hear from him, personally, of the matter of the child’s mental condition resultant upon the tragedy of his own birth and his mother’s death. The Major was decidedly anxious as to the future in this respect—all might be well in time, and all might be very far indeed from well.
Nurse Beaton absolutely and flatly refused to be parted from her charge, and the curious party of three set sail for England in due course.
“Hm!—He’s every inch a Stukeley,” remarked the General when Damocles de Warrenne was ushered into his presence in the great library at Monksmead. “Hope he’s Stukeley by nature too. Sturdy young fella! ’Spose he’s vetted sound in wind and limb?”
The Major replied that the boy was physically rather remarkably strong, mentally very sound, and in character all that could be desired. He then did his best to convey to the General an understanding of the psychic condition that must be a cause of watchfulness and anxiety on the part of those who guarded his adolescence.
At dinner, over the General’s wonderful Clos Vougeot, the Major again returned to the subject and felt that his words of advice fell upon somewhat indifferent and uncomprehending ears.
It was the General’s boast that he had never feed a doctor in his life, and his impression that a sound resort for any kind of invalid is a lethal chamber….
The seven years since the Major had last seen her, seemed to have dealt lightly with the sad-faced, pretty Miss Yvette, gentle, good, and very kind. Over the boy she rhapsodized to her own content and his embarrassment. Effusive endearments and embraces were new to Dam, and he appeared extraordinarily ignorant of the art of kissing.
“Oh, how like his dear Father!” she would exclaim afresh every few minutes, to the Major’s slight annoyance and the General’s plain disgust.
“Every inch a Stukeley!” he would growl in reply.