CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.
ANOTHER ALIAS.
"Brian Vereker Carr," inquires a voice, "what time is it?"
"Half-past four, sir," replies the same voice respectfully. "In twentyminutes"--in a more truculent tone--"you will have to go upstairs andget ready for tea. You will have to wash your hands--and your facetoo, I expect," adds the voice bitterly.
Thus, at the age of eight, does Master Brian Vereker Carr commune withhimself--a habit acquired during an infancy spent in a large nurserywhere there was no one else to talk to. The necessity for this form ofduologue no longer exists, for now a sister shares the nursery withhim--Brian lives in dread of the day when she shall discover that hermanly brother not only owned but once rejoiced in the great doll'shouse in the corner by the fireplace--but the habit remains. Besides,Miss Carr is only four years old, and gentlemen who have wornknickerbockers for years find it difficult to unbend towards theirextreme juniors to any great extent. Hence Mr Brian still confersaloofly with himself, even in the presence of adults. There aretouches of Uncle Anthony Cuthbert about Brian.
At present he is inadequately filling a large arm-chair in front ofthe library fire at Belton. The fire is the sole illuminant of theroom. The curtains are closely drawn, for it is a cold winter evening.Brian Vereker continues his observations, now approaching an artisticclimax.
"If you go upstairs promptly _and_ obediently, like a good boy, whatdo you think mother will give you?" inquires voice number one.
"Chocolates!" replies number two, with an inflection of tone whichimplies that it will be playing the game pretty low down if motherdoes not.
The owner of both voices then turns an appealing pair of brown eyesupon Daphne, who is sitting on the other side of the fireplace,engaged in the task of amusing her four-year-old daughter.
"We'll see," she replies after the immemorial practice of mothers...."And suddenly," she continues to the impatient auditor on her lap,"his furry skin fell away, and his great teeth disappeared, and hestood up there straight and beautiful, in shining armour. He _was_ afairy prince, after all! Brian, dear, tumble out of that arm-chair.Here is dad."
Daphne must have quick ears, for a full half-minute elapses before thedoor opens and a figure appears in the dim light at the end of theroom. Apparently the darkness does not trouble him, for hecircumnavigates a round table and a revolving bookcase withouthesitation, and finally drops into the arm-chair recently vacated byhis son.
"Brian Vereker Carr," inquires a small and respectful voice at hiselbow, "do you think dad will play with you to-night?"
"I am _sure_ he will," comes a confident reply from the same quarter,"if you give him two minutes to light his pipe in, and refrain fromunseemly demon--demonstrations of affection in the meanwhile."
"It's a hard world for parents," grumbles Juggernaut, getting up."Where is my tobacco-pouch?"
His hand falls upon the corner of the mantelpiece, but encountersnothing there but a framed photograph of a sun-burned young man on apolo-pony--Uncle Ally, to be precise.
"Now where on _earth_ is that pouch? I know I left it on the left-handend of the mantelpiece after lunch."
There is a shriek of delight at this from Brian, in which Miss Carrjoins, for the great daily joke of the Carr family is now beingenacted.
"Where can it be?" wails Juggernaut. "Under the hearthrug, perhaps?No, not there! In the blotting-pad? No, not there! _I_ know! I expectit is behind the coal-box."
Surprising as it may appear, his surmise proves to be correct; and thetriumphant discovery of the missing property scores a dramatic successwhich no repetition seems able to stale. (This is about the fiftiethnight of the run of the piece.)
Presently the pipe is filled and lit, Master Carr being permitted tokindle the match and Miss Carr to blow it out, the latter feat onlybeing accomplished by much expenditure of breath and a surreptitiouspuff from behind her shoulder, contributed by an agency unknown.
"Now, Brian, young fellow," announces Juggernaut, "I will play for tenminutes. Let me speak to the sister first, though."
He lifts his daughter, whom he has never seen, from her mother's knee,and exchanges a few whole-hearted confidences with her upon thesubject of her recreations, conduct, dolls, health, and outlook onlife in general. Then he restores her, and shouts--
"Come on, Brian Boroo!"
There is a responsive shriek from his son, and the game begins. It isnot every boy, Master Brian proudly reflects as he crawls on allfours beneath a writing-table, who can play at blind man's buff with areal blind man!
Daphne leans back in her chair and surveys her male belongingsrestfully. Time was when this husband of hers, at present eludingobstacles with uncanny facility and listening intently, with theyouthful zest of a boy-scout, for the excited breathing of his quarry,found life a less hilarious business. There rises before her thepicture of a man led from room to room, steered round corners, dressedlike a child, fed like a baby--shattered, groping, gaunt, butpathetically and doggedly cheerful. Neither Daphne nor her husbandever speak of that time now. Not that she regrets it: woman-like, shesometimes feels sorry it is over and gone. She was of real use to herman in those days. Now he seems to be growing independent of heragain. Then she smiles comfortably, for she knows that all fears onthat score are groundless. He is hers, body and soul. And she----
A small, unclean, and insistent hand is tugging at her skirt, and MissCarr, swaying unsteadily beneath the burden of a bulky and tatteredvolume, claims her attention.
"Show me pictures," she commands.
She and her tome are hoisted up, and the exposition begins.
"Where did you find this book, Beloved?" inquires Daphne. The book isan ancient copy of the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and we have encounteredit once before in this narrative.
"Over there," replies Beloved, indicating the bottom shelf of abookcase with a pudgy thumb--"under ze 'Gwaphics.' What's ze name ofthat genelman?"
To Miss Carr distinctions of caste are as yet unknown. In her eyesevery member of the opposite sex, from the alien who calls onThursdays with a hurdy-gurdy to the knight-in-armour who keeps eternalvigil in the outer hall, is a "genelman." Even if you are emittingflames from your stomach, as in the present instance, you are notdebarred from the title.
Daphne surveys the picture in a reminiscent fashion, and her thoughtsgo back to a distant Sunday morning at the Rectory, with her youngestbrother kneeling on the floor, endeavouring to verify a pictorialreference in this very volume.
"What is he doin' to the other genelman?" continues the searcher afterknowledge upon her knee, in a concerned voice.
"He is trying to hurt him, dear."
"What for?"
So the inexorable, immemorial catechism goes on, to be answered withinfinite patience and surprising resource. Presently the cycle ofinquiry completes itself, and the original question crops out oncemore.
"What did you say was ze name of that genelman?" with a puckered,frowning effort at remembrance.
"Apollyon, dear."
"Oh." Then the inquirer strikes a fresh note.
"Do you know him?"
"I used to," replies Daphne. "At least," she adds, "I used to knowsome one who I thought was like him. But his name turned out not to beApollyon after all."
"What _was_ his name, then--his pwoper name?" pursues Miss Carr,deeply intrigued.
Daphne turns to another illustration, coming much later in the book,and surveys it with shining eyes.
"His proper name, Beloved?" she asks.
"Yes. What _was_ it?"
"Mr Greatheart," says Daphne softly.
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
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