Snake and Sword | Page 5

vices, the pulling up short, and all those actions that speak more softly
than words?
What could she know of the strength and depth of the love that could
keep such a man as the Colonel from the bar, the bridge-table, the
race-course and the Paphian dame? Of the love that made him walk
warily lest he offend one for whom his quarter of a century, and more,
of barrack and bachelor-bungalow life, made him feel so utterly unfit
and unworthy? What could she know of all that he had given up and
delighted to give up--now that he truly loved a true woman? The
hard-living, hard-hearted, hard-spoken man had become a gentle
frequenter of his wife's tea-parties, her companion at church, her
constant attendant--never leaving the bungalow, save for duty, without
her.
To those who knew him it was a World's Marvel; to her, who knew him
not, it was nothing at all--normal, natural. And being a man who spoke
only when he must, who dreaded the expression of any emotion, and
who foolishly thought that actions speak louder than words, he had
omitted to tell her daily--or even weekly or monthly--that he loved her;
and she had died pitying herself and reproaching him.
Fate's old, old game of Cross Purposes. Major John Decies, reserved,
high-minded gentleman, loving Lenore de Warrenne (and longing to
tell her so daily), with the one lifelong love of a steadfast nature; Yvette
Stukeley, reserved, high-minded gentlewoman, loving Colonel de
Warrenne, and longing to escape from Bimariabad before his wedding
to her sister, and doing so at the earliest possible date thereafter: each
woman losing the man who would have been her ideal husband, each
man losing the woman who would have been his ideal wife.
Yvette Stukeley returned to her uncle and guardian, General Sir Gerald
Seymour Stukeley, K.C.B., K.C.S.I., at Monksmead, nursing a broken
heart, and longed for the day when Colonel de Warrenne's child might
be sent home to her care.
Major John Decies abode at Bimariabad, also nursing a broken heart

(though he scarcely realized the fact), watched over the son of Lenore
de Warrenne, and greatly feared for him.
The Major was an original student of theories and facts of Heredity and
Pre-natal Influence. Further he was not wholly hopeful as to the effect
of all the post-natal influences likely to be brought to bear upon a child
who grew up in the bungalow, and the dislike of Colonel Matthew
Devon de Warrenne.
Upon the infant Damocles, Nurse Beaton, rugged, snow-capped
volcano, lavished the tender love of a mother; and in him Major John
Decies, deep-running still water, took the interest of a father. The
which was the better for the infant Damocles in that his real father had
no interest to take and no love to lavish. He frankly disliked the
child--the outward and visible sign, the daily reminder of the cruel loss
he so deeply felt and fiercely resented.
Yet, strangely enough, he would not send the child home. Relations
who could receive it he had none, and he declined to be beholden to its
great-uncle, General Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeley, and its aunt Yvette
Stukeley, in spite of the warmest invitations from the one and earnest
entreaties from the other.
Nurse Beaton fed, tended, clothed and nursed the baby by day; a
worshipping ayah wheeled him abroad, and, by night, slept beside his
cot; a devoted sepoy-orderly from the regiment guarded his cavalcade,
and, when permitted, proudly bore him in his arms.
Major John Decies visited him frequently, watched and waited, waited
and watched, and, though not a youth, "thought long, long thoughts".
He also frequently laid his views and theories on paternal duties before
Colonel de Warrenne, until pointedly asked by that officer whether he
had no duties of his own which might claim his valuable time.
Years rolled by, after the incorrigible habit of years, and the infant
Damocles grew and developed into a remarkably sturdy, healthy,
intelligent boy, as cheerful, fearless, impudent, and irrepressible as the

heart of the Major could desire--and with a much larger vocabulary
than any one could desire, for a baby.
On the fifth anniversary of his birthday he received a matutinal call
from Major Decies, who was returning from his daily visit to the Civil
Hospital.
The Major bore a birthday present and a very anxious, undecided mind.
"Good morrow, gentle Damocles," he remarked, entering the big
verandah adown which the chubby boy pranced gleefully to meet his
beloved friend, shouting a welcome, and brandishing a sword designed,
and largely constructed, by himself from a cleaning-rod, a tobacco-tin
lid, a piece of wood, card-board and wire.
"Thalaam, Major Thahib," he said, flinging himself bodily upon that
gentleman. "I thaw cook cut a fowl's froat vis morning. It squorked
boofly."
"Did