The Adventures of Harry Revel

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

  CHAPTER V.

  THE SHADOW OF ARCHIBALD.

  It is not only children who, having once tasted bliss, suppose fondlythat one has only to prepare a time and place for it again and it canbe repeated. But he must be a queer child who starts with expectingany less. Certainly no doubts assailed me when the anniversary cameround and I made my way to Mr. Tucker's Bun Shop; nor did MissPlinlimmon's greeting lack anything of tenderness. She began at onceto talk away merrily: but children are demons to detect somethingamiss, and there was a note in her gaiety which somehow did not soundin key. After a while she broke off in the middle of a sentence andsat stirring her tea, as with a mind withdrawn; recovered herself,and catching at her last words, continued--but on a differentsubject; then, reading some puzzlement in my eyes, exclaimedabruptly, "My dear Harry, you have grown beyond knowledge!"

  "Were you thinking of that?" I asked, for I had heard it twicealready.

  She answered one question with another. "Of what were _you_thinking?"

  I hesitated, for in truth I had been thinking how much older she hadgrown. A year is a long time to a child, but it did not account tome for a curious wanness in her colour. Her hair was greyer, too,and there were dark rings under her eyes. "You seem differentsomehow, Miss Plinlimmon."

  "Do I? The Hospital has been wearing me out, of late. I havethought sometimes of resigning and trying my fortune elsewhere: butthe thought of the children restrains me. I make many mistakes withthem--perhaps more as the years go on: they love me, however, forthey know that I mean well, and it would haunt me if they fell intobad hands. Now I am not sure that Mr. Scougall would choose the bestsuccessor. Before he married I could have trusted his judgment."She fell a-musing again. "Archibald is here in Plymouth," she addedinconsequently. "My nephew, you know."

  I nodded, and asked, "Is he quartered here?"

  "Why, how did you know he was in the Army?"

  "You told me Major Arthur was saving up to buy him a commission."

  "How well you remember!" she sighed. "Alas! no: the debts were tooheavy. Archibald is in the Army, but he has enlisted as a private,in the 105th, the North Wilts Regiment. His father advised it: hesays that, in these days, commissions are to be won by young mencontent to begin in the ranks; and the lad has (I believe) a goodfriend in Colonel Festonhaugh, who commands the North Wilts. He andArthur are old comrades in arms. But garrison life does not suit thepoor boy, or so he complains. He is a little sore with his fatherfor subjecting him to it, and cannot take his stern view about payingthe debts. That is natural enough, perhaps." She heaved anothersigh. "His regiment--or rather the second battalion, to which hebelongs--was ordered down to Plymouth last January, and since thenhas been occupied with drill and petty irritating duties at which hegrumbles sorely--though I believe there is a prospect of their beingordered out to Portugal before long."

  "You see him often?" I asked.

  She seemed to pause a moment. "Yes; oh, yes to be sure, I see himfrequently. That is only natural, is it not?"

  We left the shop and strolled towards the Hoe. I felt that somethingwas interfering to spoil our day; and felt unreasonably sure of it onfinding our old seat occupied by three soldiers--two of themsupporting a drunken comrade. We made disconsolately for an emptybench, some fifty yards away.

  "They belong to Archibald's regiment," said Miss Plinlimmon as wesettled ourselves to talk. I had noted that she scanned themnarrowly. "Why, here _is_ Archibald!" she exclaimed: and I looked upand saw a young red-coat sauntering towards us.

  Her tone, I was jealously glad to observe, had not been entirelyjoyous. And Master Archibald, as he drew near, did not seem in thebest of tempers. He was beyond all doubt a handsome youth, andstraight-limbed; but apparently a sullen one. He kept his eyes onthe ground and only lifted them for a moment when close in front ofus.

  "Good afternoon, aunt."

  "Good afternoon, Archibald. This is Harry--my friend of whom youhave heard me speak."

  He glanced at me with a curt nod. I could see that he considered mea nuisance. An awkward silence fell between the three of us, brokenat length by a start and a smothered exclamation from MissPlinlimmon.

  Archibald glanced over his shoulder carelessly. "Oh, yes," said he,"they are baiting a bull down yonder."

  The ridge hid the bull-ring from us. Dogs had been barking therewhen we seated ourselves, but the noise held no meaning for us.It was the bull's roar which had startled Miss Plinlimmon.

  "Pray let us go!" She gathered her shawl about her in a twitter."This is quite horrible!"

  "There's nothing to be afraid of," he assured her. "The brute's tiedfast enough. Don't go, aunt: I want a word with you."

  He glowered at me again, and this time with meaning. I saw that hewished me gone, and I moved to go.

  "This is Harry's birthday. I am keeping it with him: his birthday aswell as mine, Archibald."

  "Gad, I forgot! I'm sorry, aunt--Many happy returns of the day!"

  "Thank you," said she drily. "And now if you particularly wish tospeak to me, I will walk with you, but only a short way. Harry shallfind another seat."

  As they walked away side by side, I turned my head to look for abench farther removed from the bull-ring; and so became aware ofanother soldier, in uniform similar to Mr. Archibald's, stretchedprone on the turf a few paces behind me.

  When I stood up and turned to have a look at him, his head haddropped on his arms and he appeared to be sleeping. But I could havesworn that when I first caught sight of him he had been gazing afterthe pair.

  Well, there was nothing in this (you will say) to disturb me; yet forsome reason it made me alert, if not uneasy. I chose another seat,but at no great distance, and kept him in view. He raised his headonce, stared around like one confused and not wholly awake, anddropped into slumber again. Miss Plinlimmon and Archibald turned andcame pacing back; turned again and repeated this quarter-deck walkthree or four times. He was talking, and now and then using a slightgesture. I could not see that she responded. At any rate, she didnot turn to him. But the man on the grass occupied most of myattention, and I missed the parting. An odd fancy took me to watchif he stirred again while I counted a hundred. He did not, and Ishifted my gaze to find Miss Plinlimmon coming towards me unescorted.Archibald had disappeared.

  Her eyes were red, and her voice trembled a little. "And now," saidshe, "that's enough of my affairs, please God!" She began to putquestions about the Trapps. And while I answered them I happenedto look along the flat stretch of turf to the right, in time to see,at perhaps a hundred yards' distance, a soldier cross it from behindand go hurrying down the slope towards the bull-ring. I recognisedhim at a glance. He was the black-avised man who had pretended to besleeping.

  Almost at once, as I remember it--but I dare say some minutes hadpassed--a furious hubbub arose below us, mixed with the yelling ofdogs and a few sharp screams. And, before we knew what it meant, atthe point where the black-avised man had disappeared, he camescrambling back, found his legs and headed desperately towards us,with a bull behind him in full chase.

  I managed to drag Miss Plinlimmon off the bench, thrust her like abundle beneath it, and scrambled after her into shelter but a secondor two before the pair came thundering by; for the bull's hoovesshook the ground; and so small a space--ten or twelve yards at themost--divided him from the man, that they passed in one rush, andwith them half a dozen bulldogs hanging at the brute's heels as iftrailed along by an invisible cord. Next after these pelted MasterArchibald, shouting and tugging at his side-arm; and after him again,but well in the rear, a whole rabble of bull-baiters, butchers,soldiers, boys and mongrels, all yelping together with excitement andterror, the men flourishing swords and pitchforks.

  To speak of the man first.--I have since seen soldiers crazed andrunning in battle, but never such a face as passed me in that briefvision. His lips were wide, his eyes strained and almost startingfrom his head, the pupils turned a little backward as
if fascinatedby the terror at his heels, imploring help, seeking a chance todouble--all three together--and yet absolutely fixed and rigid.

  The bull made no account of us, though below the seat I caught thelight of his red eye as he plunged past, head to ground and so closethat his hot breath smote in our faces and the broken end of ropeabout the base of his horns whipped the grass by my fingers.Perhaps the red coat attracted his rage. But he seemed to nurse aspecial grudge against the man.

  This appeared when, a stone's-throw beyond our seat, the man sprangsideways to the left of his course--in the nick of time, too, for ashe sprang he seemed to clear the horns by a bare foot. The bull'sheavier rush carried him forward for several yards before he swervedhimself on to the new line of pursuit; and this let up MasterArchibald, who by this time had his side-arm loose.

  "Ham-string 'en!" yelled a blue-shirted butcher, pausing beside usand panting. "Quick, you fool--ham-string 'en!"

  For some reason the young man seemed to hesitate. Likely enough hedid not hear; perhaps had lost presence of mind. At any rate, for asecond or so, his arm hung on the stroke, and as the bull swervedagain he jabbed his bayonet feebly at the haunch.

  The butcher swore furiously. "Murdered by folly if ever man was!Ye bitter fool," he shouted, "it's pricked him on, ye've done!"

  The black-faced man, having gained maybe a dozen yards by hismanoeuvre, was now heading for the Citadel gate; beside which--so faraway that we saw them as toys--stood a sentry-box and the figure of asentry beside it. Could he reach this gate? His altered course hadtaken him a little downhill, to the left of the ridge, and to regainit by the Citadel he must fetch a slight loop. Luckily the bullcould not reason: he followed his enemy. But there was just a chancethat by running along the ridge the chase might be headed off.The crowd saw this and set off anew, with Master Archibald still alittle in front and increasing his lead. I scrambled from under theseat and followed.

  But almost at once it became plain that we were out-distanced.Alone of us Master Archibald had a chance; and if the man were to besaved, it lay either with him or with the sentry at the gate.

  I can yet remember the look on the sentry's face as we drew closerand his features grew distinct. He stood in the middle of the shortroadway which led to the drawbridge, and clearly it had within a fewmoments dawned upon him that _he_ was the point upon which thesefatal forces were converging. A low wall fenced him on either hand,and as he braced himself, grasping his Brown Bess--a fine picture ofDuty triumphing over Irresolution--into this narrow passage pouredthe chase, rolled as it were in a flying heap; the hunted man justperceptibly first, the bull and Archibald Plinlimmon cannoningagainst each other at the entrance. Master Archibald was hurledaside by the impact of the brute's hindquarters and shot, at first onall fours, then prone, alongside the base of the wall; but he hadmanaged to get his thrust home, and this time with effect. The bulltossed his head with a mighty roar, ducked it again and charged onhis prey, who flung up both arms and fell spent by the sentry-box.The sentry sprang to the other side of the roadway and let fly hischarge at random as box, man, and bull crashed to earth together, anda dreadful bellow mingled with the sharper notes of splintered wood.

  It was the end. The bullet had cut clean through the bull's spine atthe neck, and the crowd dragged him lifeless, a board of thesentry-box still impaled on his horns, off the legs of theblack-avised man--who, at first supposed to be dead also, awoke outof his swoon to moan feebly for water.

  While this was fetching, the butcher knelt and lifted him against hisknee. He struck me as ill-favoured enough--not to say ghastly--withthe dust and blood on his face (for a splinter had laid open hischeek), and its complexion an unhealthy white against his mattedhair. I took note that he wore sergeant's stripes.

  "What's the poor thing called?" someone inquired of the sentry.

  The sentry, being an Irishman, mistook the idiom. "He's called aBull," said he, stroking the barrel of his rifle. "H'what the divvleelse?"

  "But 'tis the man we mean."

  "Oh, _he's_ called Letcher; sergeant; North Wilts."

  Letcher gulped down a mouthful of water and managed to sit up,pushing the butcher's arm aside.

  "Where's Plinlimmon?" he asked hoarsely. "Hurt?"

  "Here I am, old fellow," answered Archibald, reeling rather thanstepping forward. "A crack on the skull, that's all. Hope you'renone the worse?" His own face was bleeding from a nasty graze on theright temple.

  "H'm?" said Letcher. "Mean it? You'd better mean it by--!" hesnarled suddenly, his face twisted with pain or malice. "You weren'ttoo smart, the first go. Why the deuce didn't you hamstring thebrute? You heard them shouting?"

  "That's asackly what I told 'en," put in the butcher.

  "Oh, stow your fat talk, you silly Devonshire-man!" The butcher'stongue was too big for his mouth, and Letcher mimicked himferociously and with an accuracy quite wonderful, his exhaustionconsidered. He leaned back and panted. "The brute touched me--underthe thigh, here. I doubt I'm bleeding." He closed his eyes andfainted away.

  They found, on lifting him, that he spoke truth. The bull had goredhim in the leg: a nasty wound beginning at the back of the knee,running upward and missing the main artery by a bare inch. A squadof soldiers had run out, hearing the shot, and these bore him intothe Citadel, Master Archibald limping behind.

  The crowd began to disperse, and I made my way back to MissPlinlimmon.

  "A providential escape!" said she on hearing my report. "I am gladthat Archibald acquitted himself well." She went on to tell me of ayouthful adventure of her own with a mountain bull, in her nativeWales.

  Some days later she sent me a poem on the occurrence:

  "Lo, as he strides his native scene, The bull--how dignified his mien! When tethered, otherwise! Yet _one_ his tether broke and ran After a military man Before these very eyes!"

  "I feel that I have been more successful with the metre than usual,"she added, "having been guided by a little poem, a favourite of mine,which, as it also inculcates kindness to the brute creation, you willdo well, Harry, to commit to memory. It runs:

  "'Poor little birds! If people knew What sorrows little birds go through, I think that even boys Would never deem it sport, or fun, To stand and fire a frightful gun For nothing but the noise.'"

  The shadow of Mr. Archibald seemed doomed to rest upon ouranniversaries. This second one, though more than exciting enough,had not answered my expectations: and, on the third, when I presentedmyself at the Bun Shop it was to learn with dismay that MissPlinlimmon had not arrived; with dismay and something more--for I hadwalked into the country towards Plympton early that morning andraided an orchard under the trees of which grew a fine crop ofcolumbines, seeded from a neighbouring garden. Also I jingledtogether in my pocket no less a sum than two bright shillings, whichMr. Trapp had magnificently handed over to me out of a wager of fivehe had made with an East Country skipper that I could dive and takethe water, hands first, off the jib-boom of any vessel selected fromthe shipping then at anchor in Cattewater. I knew that MissPlinlimmon wanted a box to hold her skeins, and I also knew the priceof one in a window in George Street, and had the shopman's promisenot to part with it before five o'clock that evening. I wished MissPlinlimmon to admire it first, and then I meant to enter the shop ina lordly fashion and, emerging, to put the treasure in her hands.

  So I paced the pavement in front of Mr. Tucker's, the prey of athousand misgivings. But at length, and fully half an hour late, shehove in sight.

  "I have been detained, dear," she explained as we kissed, "--byArchibald," she added.

  Always that accursed Archibald! "Did he wish you many happyreturns?" I asked, thrusting my bunch of columbines upon her with ablush.

  "You dear, dear boy!" she chirruped. But she ignored my question.When we were seated, too, she made the poorest attempt to eat, butkept exclaiming on the beauty of my flowers.

  The me
al over, she drew out her purse to pay. "We shan't be seeingMr. Archibald to-day?" I asked wistfully, preparing to go.

  "You may be certain--" With that she paused, with a blank look whichchanged to one of shame and utter confusion. The purse was empty.

  "Oh, Harry--what shall I do? There were five shillings in itwhen--. I counted them out and laid the purse on the table beside mygloves. I was just picking them up when--when Archibald--"Her voice failed again and she turned to the shop-woman. "Somethingmost unfortunate has happened. Will you, please, send for Mr.Tucker? He will know me. I have been here on several previousoccasions--"

  I had not the slightest notion of the price of eatables; but I, too,turned on the shopwoman with a bold face, albeit with a flutteringheart.

  "How much?" I demanded.

  "One-and-ninepence, sir."

  I know not which made me the happier--relief, or the glory of beingaddressed as "sir." I paid, pocketed my threepence change, and inthe elation of it offered Miss Plinlimmon my arm. We walked downGeorge Street, past the work-box in the window. I managed to passwithout wincing, though desperately afraid that the shopman might popout--it seemed but natural he should be lying in wait--and hold me tomy bargain.

  Our session upon the Hoe, though uninterrupted, did not recapture thedear abandonment of our first blissful birthday. Miss Plinlimmoncould neither forget the mishap to her purse, nor speak quite freelyabout it. A week later she celebrated her redemption in thefollowing stanza:

  "A friend in need is a friend indeed, We have oft-times heard: And King Richard the Third Was reduced to crying, 'My kingdom for a horse!' O, may we never want a friend! 'Or a bottle to give him,' I omit, as coarse."

  She enclosed one-and-ninepence in the missive: and so obtained herwork-box after all--it being, by a miracle, still unsold.