CHAPTER IV.
MISS PLINLIMMON.
Late in August, and a week or two before Mr. Trapp changed hissignboard and resumed his proper business, I was idling by the edgeof the Barbican one evening when a boy, whose eye I had blackedrecently, charged up behind me and pushed me over. I pretended to bedrowning, and sank theatrically as he and half a dozen others,conveniently naked, plunged to the rescue. They dived for my bodywith great zeal, while I, having slipped under the keel of atrading-ketch and climbed on board by her accommodation-ladderdangling on the far side, watched them from behind a stack offlower-pots on her deck. When they desisted, and I had seen theculprit first treated as a leper by the crowd, then haled before twoconstables and examined at length, finally led homeward by the earand cuffed at every few steps by his mother (a widow), I slipped backinto the water, dived back under the ketch, and, emerging, asked thecause of the disturbance. This made a new reputation for me, at theexpense of some emotion to Mrs. Trapp, to whom the news of my deceasehad been borne on the swiftest wings of rumour.
But I have tarried too long over those days of my apprenticeship, andam yet only at the beginning. Were there no story to be told, Imight fill a chapter by fishing up recollections of Plymouth in thosedays; of the women, for instance, carried down in procession to theBarbican and ducked for scolding. A husband had but to go before theMayor (Mr. Trapp sometimes threatened it) and swear that his wife wasa common scold, and the Mayor gave him an order to hoist her on ahorse and take her to the ducking-chair to be dipped thrice in SuttonPool. At last a poor creature died of it, and that put an end to thebad business. Then there were the press-gangs. Time and again Ihave run naked from bathing to watch the press as, after hunting fromtavern to tavern, it dragged a man off screaming to the steps, thesailors often man-handling him and the officer joking with the crowdand behaving as cool and gentlemanly as you please. Mr. Trapp and Iwere by the door one evening, measuring out the soot, when a man camepanting up the alley and rushed past us into the back kitchen withoutso much as "by your leave." Half a minute later up came the press,and the young officer at the head of them was for pushing past andinto the house; but Mr. Trapp blocked the doorway, with Mrs. Trappfull of fight in the rear.
"Stand by!" says the officer to his men. "And you, sir, what thedevil do you mean by setting yourself in the way of his Majesty'sService?"
"An Englishman's house," said Mr. Trapp, "is his castle."
"D'ye hear that?" screamed Mrs. Trapp.
"An Englishman's house," repeated Mr. Trapp slowly, "is his castle.The storms may assail it, and the winds whistle round it, but theKing himself cannot do so."
The officer knew the law and called off his gang. When the coast wasclear we went to search for the man, and found he had vanished,taking half a flitch of bacon with him off the kitchen-rack.
All those days, too, throb in my head to the tramp of soldiers in thestreets, and ring with bugles blown almost incessantly from theramparts high above my garret. On Sundays Mr. Trapp and I used totake our walk together around the ramparts, between church anddinner-time, after listening to the Royal Marine Band as it played upGeorge Street and Bedford Street on the way from service in St.Andrew's Church. If we met a soldier we had to stand aside; indeed,even common privates in those days (so proudly the Army bore itself,though its triumphs were to come) would take the wall of a woman--agreater insult then than now, or at least a more unusual one.A young officer of the '--'th Regiment once put this indignity uponMrs. Trapp, in Southside Street. The day was a wet one, and thegutter ran with liquid mud. Mrs. Trapp recovered her balance,slipped off her pattens, and stamped them on the back of his scarletcoat--two oval O's for him to walk about with.
Those were days, too, which kept our Plymouth stones rattling.Besides the coaches--the "Quicksilver," which carried the mails and acoachman and guard in scarlet liveries, the humdrum "Defiance" andthe dashing "Subscription" or "Scrippy" post-chaises came and wentcontinually, whisking naval officers between us and London withdispatches: and sometimes the whole populace turned out to cheer astrains of artillery wagons, escorted by armed seamen, marines, andsoldiers, horse and foot, rumbled up from Dock towards the Citadelwith treasure from some captured frigate. I could tell, too, of thegreat November Fair in the Market Place, and the rejoicings on theKing's Jubilee, when I paid a halfpenny to go inside the huge hollowbonfire built on the Hoe: but all this would keep me from my story--for which I must hark back to Miss Plinlimmon.
For many months I heard nothing of this dear lady, and it seemed thatI had parted from her for ever, when one evening as I returned fromcarrying a bag of soot out to Mutley Plain (where a market-gardenerwanted some for his beds), Mrs. Trapp put into my hands a letteraddressed in the familiar Italian hand to "H. Revel, residing withMr. S. Trapp, House Renovator, near the Barbican." It ran:
"My dearest Harry,--I wonder if, amid your new avocations, you will take the pleasure in the handwriting of an _old friend_? I remember you many times daily, and often when I wake in the night; and commend you to God morning and evening, kneeling on the place where your cot used to stand, for I have no one now to care for in my room. There is little change in our life here; though Mr. Scougall, as I foreboded, takes less heart in his ministrations, and I should not wonder if he retired before long. But this is between ourselves. Punctual as ever in his duties, he rarely spends the night here, but departs at six p.m. for his wife's farm, where Mrs. S. very naturally prefers to reside. Indeed, I wish she would absent herself altogether; for when she comes, it is to criticise the housekeeping, in which I regret to say she does not maintain that generous spirit of which she gave promise in the veal pies, etc., of that _ever memorable_ morning. I never condescended to be a bride: yet I feel sure, that had I done so, it would have given me an extra compassion for the fatherless."
"But enough of myself. My object in writing is to tell you that my birthday falls on Wednesday next (May 1st, dedicated by the Ancient Romans to the Goddess of Flowers, as I was yearly reminded in my happy youth. But how often Fate withholds from us her seeming promises!). It might be a bond between us, my dear boy, if you will take that day for your birthday too. Pray humour me in this; for indeed your going has left a void which I cannot fill, and perhaps do not wish to, except with thoughts of you. I trust there used to be no _partiality_; but for some reason you were dearer to me than the others; and I feel as if God, in His mysterious way, sent you into my life _with meaning_. Do you think that Mr. Trapp, if you asked him politely (and I trust you have not forgotten your politeness), would permit you to meet me at 5 p.m. on Wednesday, in Mr. Tucker's Bun Shop, in Bedford Street, to celebrate your birthday with an affectionate friend? Such ever is,"
"Amelia Plinlimmon."
"Oh, very well," said Mr. Trapp when I showed him the letter and putmy request; "only don't let her swell you out of shape. Chimbleys isnarrower than they used to be. May-day is Sweeps' Holiday, too,though we don't keep it up in Plymouth: I dare say the lady thought'pon that. In my bachelor days I used to be Jack in the Greenreggilar."
"It's just as well I never saw ye, then," said his wife tartly."And to imagine that a lady like Miss Plinlimmon would concernherself with your deboshes! But you'd lower the King on his throne."
Indeed, Mr. Trapp went on to give some colour to this. "I wonderwhat she means, talking about Roman goddesses?" he mused. "I seenone, once, in a penny show; and it was marked outside 'Men onlyAdmitted.'"
Mrs. Trapp swept me from the room.
On May-day, then, I entered Mr. Tucker's Bun Shop with a beatingheart, a scrubbed face and a sprig of southernwood in my button-hole,and Miss Plinlimmon fell on my neck and kissed me. All the formalityof the Genevan Hospital dropped away from her as a garment, and leftonly the tender formality of her own nature, so human that it amazedme. I had never
really known her until now. She had prepared afeast, including Mr. Tucker's famous cheese-cakes, "as patronised byQueen Charlotte," and cakes called "maids of honour." "To my mind,"said Miss Plinlimmon, taking one, "there is always an air ofrefinement about this shop." She praised my growth, and thecleanliness of my skin, and the care with which Mrs. Trapp kept myclothes; and laughed when I reported some of Mrs. Trapp's sayings--but tremulously: indeed, more than once her eyes brimmed as she gazedacross the table. "You cannot think how happy I am!" she almostwhispered, and broke off to draw my attention to a young officer whohad entered the shop, with two ladies in fresh summer gowns ofsprigged muslin, and who stood by the counter buying sweetmeats."If you can do so without staring, Harry, always make a point ofobserving such people as that. You will be surprised at the littlehints you pick up." I told her, growing bold, that I knew no finerlady than she, and never wanted to--which I still think a happy andhighly creditable speech for a boy of eleven. She flushed withpleasure. "I have birth, I hope," she said, and with that her colourdeepened, perhaps with a suspicion that this might hurt my feelings."But since our reverses," she went on hurriedly, "we Plinlimmons havestood still; and one should move with the times. I am not with thosewho think good manners need be old-fashioned ones." She recurred toMrs. Trapp. "I feel sure she must be an excellent woman.Your clothes are well kept, and I read more in needlework than youthink. Also folks cannot neglect their cleanliness and then furbishthemselves up in a day. I see by your complexion that she attends toyou. I hope you are careful not to laugh at her when she makes thoseludicrous speeches?"
But I shifted the talk from Mrs. Trapp.
"What did you mean, just now, by 'we,' Miss Plinlimmon?" I asked.
"Did I say 'we'?"
"You talked about your reverses--'our reverses,' you said. I wishyou would tell me about it: I never heard, before, of anyonebelonging to you."
"'We' means 'my brother and I,'" she said, and said no more until shehad paid the bill and we walked up to the Hoe together. There shechose a seat overlooking the Sound and close above the amphitheatre(in those days used as a bull-ring) where Corineus the Trojan hadwrestled, ages before, with the giant Gogmagog and defeated him.
"My brother Arthur--Captain Arthur Plinlimmon of the King's Own--isthe soul of honour. I do not believe a nobler gentleman lives in thewhole wide world: but then we are descended from the great Glendower,King of Wales (I will show you the pedigree, some day), and haveTudor blood, too, in our veins. When dear papa died and wediscovered he had been speculating unfortunately in East IndiaStock--'buying for a fall' was, I am told, his besetting weakness,though I could never understand the process--Arthur offered me a homeand maintenance for life. Of course I refused: for the blow reducedhim, too, to bitter poverty, and he was married. And, besides, Icould never bear his wife, who was a woman of fashion andextravagant. She is dead now, poor thing, so we will not talk ofher: but she could never be made to understand that theircircumstances were altered, and died leaving some debts and onechild, a boy called Archibald, who is now close on twenty years old.So there is my story, Harry; and a very ordinary one, is it not?"
"Where does Captain Plinlimmon live?" I asked.
"He is quartered in Lancaster just now, with his regiment: and Archielives with him. He had hoped to buy the poor boy a commission beforethis, but could not do so honourably until all the debts were paid.'The sins of the fathers--'" She broke off and glanced at menervously.
But I was not of an age to suspect why, or to understand my own lotat all. "I suppose you love this Archibald better than anybody,"said I with a twinge of jealousy.
"Oh, no," she exclaimed quickly, and at once corrected herself."Not so much as I ought. I love him, of course, for his father'ssake: but in features he takes after his mother very strikingly, andthat--on the few occasions I have seen him--chilled me. It is wrong,I know; and no doubt with more opportunity I should have grown veryfond of him. Sometimes I tax myself, Harry, with being frail in myaffections: they require renewing with a sight of--of their object.That is why we are keeping our birthdays together to-day."
She smiled at me, almost archly, putting out a hand to rest it onmine, which lay on my knee; then suddenly the smile wavered, and hereyes began to brim; I saw in them, as in troubled water, brokenimages of a hundred things I had known in dreams; and her arm wasabout my neck and I nestled against her.
"Dear Harry! Dear boy!"
I cannot tell how long we sat there: certainly until the shipshung out their riding-lights and the May stars shone down on us.At whiles we talked, and at whiles were silent: and both the talk andthe silences (if you will not laugh) held some such meanings as theyhold for lovers. More than ever she was not the Miss Plinlimmon Iremembered, but a strange woman, coming forth and revealing herselfwith the stars. She actually confessed that she loathed porridge!--"though for example's sake, you know, I force myself to eat it.I think it unfair to compel children to a discipline you cannotendure with them."
She parted with me under the moonlit Citadel, at the head of aby-lane leading to the Trapps' cottage. "I shall not write often, orsee you," she said. "It is seldom that I get a holiday or even anhour to myself, and we will not unsettle ourselves"--mark, if thechild could not, the noble condescension--"in our duties that areperhaps the more blessed for being stern. But a year hence forcertain, if spared, we will meet. Until then be a gentleman alwaysand--I may ask it now--for my sake."
So we parted, and for a whole year I saw nothing of her, nor heardexcept at Christmas, when she sent me a closely written letter of sixsheets, of which I will transcribe only the poetical conclusion:
"Christmas comes but once a year: And why? we well may ask. Repine not. We are probably unequal To a severer task."