The Adventures of Harry Revel | Page 3

"I
shall always think of you and that tune together. It is called the Revelly,
which is a French word."
"But the soldier is English?" said I.
"Oh, I truly trust so--a heart of oak, I should hope! England cannot
have too many of them in these days, when a weak woman can scarce
lay herself down in her bed at night with the certainty of getting up in
the same position in the morning."
(They were days when, as I afterwards learnt, Napoleon's troops and
flat-bottomed boats were gathered at Boulogne and waiting their
opportunity to invade us. But of this scarcely an echo penetrated to our
courtyard, although the streets outside were filled daily with the
tramping of troops and rolling of store-wagons. We knew that our
country--whatever that might mean--was at war with France, and we
played in our yard a game called "French and English." That was all:
and Miss Plinlimmon, good soul, if at times she awoke in the night and
shuddered and listened for the yells of Frenchmen in the town,
heroically kept her fears to herself. This was as near as she ever came
to imparting them.)
"I have often thought of you, Harry," she went on, "as embracing a
military career. Mr. Scougall very kindly allows me to choose
surnames for you boys when you--when you leave us. He says (but I
fear in flattery) that I have more invention than he." And here, though
bound on my word of honour not to look, I felt sure she was smiling to
herself in the glass. "What would you say if I christened you Revelly?"
"Oh, please, no!" I entreated. "Let mine be an English name.
Why--why couldn't I be called Plinlimmon? I would rather have that
than any name in the world."
"You are a darling!" exclaimed she, much to my surprise; and, the next

moment, I felt a little pecking kiss on the back of my neck. She usually
kissed me at night, after my prayers were said: but somehow this was
different, and it fetched tears to my eyes--greatly to my surprise, for we
were not given to tears at the Genevan Hospital. "Plinlimmon is a
mountain in Wales, and that, I dare say, is what makes me so romantic.
Now, you are not romantic in the least: and, besides, it wouldn't do. No,
indeed. But you shall be called by an English name, if you wish, though
to my mind there's a je ne sais quoi about the French. I once knew a
Frenchman, a writing and dancing master, called Duvelleroy, which
always seemed the beautifullest name."
"Was he beautiful himself?" I asked.
"He used to play a kit--which is a kind of small fiddle--holding it across
his waist. It made him look as if he were cutting himself in half; which
did not contribute to that result. But suppose, now, we call you
Revel--Harry Revel? That's English enough, and will remind me just
the same--if Mr. Scougall will not think it too Anacherontic."
I saw no reason to fear this: but then I had no idea what she meant by it,
or by calling herself romantic. She was certainly soft-hearted. She
possessed many books, as well as an album in her own handwriting,
and encouraged me to read aloud to her on summer mornings when the
sun was up and ahead of us. And once, in the story of Maximilian, or
Quite the Gentleman: Founded on Fact and Designed to excite the
Love of Virtue in the Rising Generation, at a point where the hero's
small brother Felix is carried away by an eagle, she dissolved in tears.
"In my native Wales," she explained afterwards, "the wild sheep leap
from rock to rock so much as a matter of course that you would, in time,
be surprised if they didn't. And that naturally gives me a sympathy with
all that is sublime on the one hand or affecting on the other."
Yet later--but I cannot separate these things accurately in time--I awoke
in my cot one night and heard Miss Plinlimmon sobbing. The sound
was dreadful to me and I longed to creep across the room to her dark
bedside and comfort her; though I could tell she was trying to suppress
it for fear of disturbing me. In the end her sobs ceased and, still
wondering, I dropped off to sleep, nor next day did I dare to question

her.
But it could not have been long after this that we boys got wind of Mr.
Scougall's approaching marriage with a wealthy lady of the town. I
must speak of this ceremony, because, as the fates ordained, it gave me
my first start in life.
CHAPTER II.
I START IN LIFE AS AN EMINENT PERSON.
Mr. Scougall was a