Jasper Lyle

He entreated me not to forget him, said he should be wretched till he returned, and a hundred tender things besides; but I could see that the change from garrison life to active service was exciting to him: he had no idea of temporising with savages, he said; he hoped Sir Adrian would settle the question by “speaking to the Kafirs,” as they said themselves, “with guns.” Oh! it would only be a month’s affair. They were to ride five hundred miles a week till they reached the seat of war; and then, he added, with a gay air, “think how much faster we shall ride back.”

We met Sir Adrian in the garden; he had been looking for Clarence. The Governor was too full of public affairs and his own domestic anxiety to say much to me. A young girl of seventeen, in the full bloom of mirth and beauty, was an agreeable object to him in a ball-room, but he was wont to laugh, like Clarence, at “sorrow-stricken damsels;” he saw I had been weeping, but could enter little into my misery; he uttered some courteous expressions of regret at leaving me to the dulness of Cape Town in the absence of officials; and with more show of feeling than I had seen him exhibit, said, “You will take care of Lady Amabel, my dear Miss Daveney; I am consoled in these hurried moments of departure at the idea of leaving her with so sweet a companion.”

“You must make breakfast for us this morning,” added he, giving me his arm, and leading me through the verandah to the room where the repast was spread.

I sat down passively in the chair Sir Adrian placed for me, and did the honours of the breakfast to the Governor, his staff, and two or three civil functionaries.

Mr Rashleigh was there—obsequious, prosy, and judicial: he was alike despised and disliked in private life; but he was “Sir Adrian’s right hand at Cape Town;” was au fait at the working of the difficult machinery of government from one end of the colony to the other; and, as I afterwards heard, kept up a sort of civil treaty with Mrs Rashleigh, who had never loved him, but who had a thorough sense of the advantages she derived from her position as his wife, surrounded by the appliances, and, what she considered, the state of official life. She had ample evidence against him to procure a divorce if she chose it; but such a proceeding would have been the ruin of both. She had the art to conceal her most glaring errors from the world, and rumours were afloat of stormy debates between this worldly, unprincipled pair: he remonstrating on her extravagance, she defying him, by threatening him with an esclandre that would have deprived him of his high appointment.

You may believe that such rumours never reached Sir Adrian and Lady Amabel. It is “expedient” to overlook the most glaring errors of powerful and useful men. Probably, if any one had endeavoured to enlighten Sir Adrian, the latter would have deprecated the information as intrusive. No; every one believed Mr and Mrs Rashleigh to be unprincipled people; but they had a fine house, gave elegant entertainments, were on the best terms with the first authorities through every successive government, never worried others with their quarrels; on the contrary, were perfectly civil to each other in public; and, although the lady was said to be extravagant, she paid her debts.

I am telling you what, probably, you may have heard of these baneful people; for it is not very long since circumstances came to light which would never have been known had the Rashleighs continued prosperous; but the day came when the world did not care what it believed against them, and then their very errors were exaggerated—if that were possible—but I must not be uncharitable. How true that remark of Sir Thomas More—I forget the exact words—you quoted them the other day—that “our faults we engraven on marble—our virtues traced in the dust!”

The gentlemen hurried over their breakfast, and Sir Adrian retired with Mr Rashleigh. How I longed to rise and escape through the window into the garden! but it was impracticable, and there I remained for upwards of an hour, with a heart bursting with grief, while my face was condemned to wear a calm appearance. Doubtless, “Fairfax’s flirtation with little Miss Daveney” had been talked of at many of these men’s tables; but they were all too much interested in the important events pending to give a thought to the shy, melancholy little figure, sitting with her back to the light, and dispensing tea and coffee as fast as the servants could hand round the silver salvers.

Oh! weak of heart and weak of mind that I was in those days!—But am I the wiser for the past?

I trust so; I pray it may prove good for me that I have been afflicted, and that, like the land desolated apparently by the dark waters of the Nile, my soul may be purified and strengthened by the floods that have gone over my soul, and that the receding tide may leave all refreshed, hopeful, and serene.

Oh! the solitude of a great mansion which for weeks has been ringing with sounds of dancers’ feet, of laughter, and of song. The large vacant rooms, the tall mirrors, reflecting in all directions one insignificant little object! I went wandering about the apartments at Government House the greater part of that morning. Lady Amabel was in bed, exhausted by a succession of fainting-fits. The sudden announcement of the evil tidings had scared her weak nerves, and Sir Adrian’s speedy departure had prostrated her. They had scarcely been sundered for twenty years, save in some short brilliant campaigns in India. No one seemed to dread actual danger to the General’s person in his present expedition; but I had heard something of the foe he was about to encounter, and I knew what might be.

Clarence Fairfax and I parted amid a bevy of officials. We shook hands like commonplace acquaintances. The other members of the staff came rattling in through the open doors. All was hurry at the last; I ran up to my dressing-room window, and watched the assemblage of people who had come to make their parting bow to the popular Governor.

Horses, men, equipages were crowded together; Sir Adrian appeared—there was a hearty shout—the grooms and orderlies brought up the chargers, they were rowing and fretting with impatience. My pretty Zara was led by a dragoon, to be ridden only occasionally. The General and staff were soon in their saddles—the crowd gave way—Sir Adrian waved his hat—the aides-de-camp bowed right and left, and the cavalcade proceeded at a rapid pace down the street. In ten minutes not a trace was left of this gallant array. The Rashleighs were to follow the Governor in the afternoon. They drove up to the door of Government House in their travelling equipage, saddle and sumpter horses following. Lady Amabel could not see them—I would not; but from my dressing-room, where I sat trying to draw, I could hear Mrs Rashleigh’s imperative voice. I looked through the Venetian blinds for an instant, and turned away, sick at heart.

It was evening before Lady Amabel and I met. How vast the room looked as we two sat at dinner, with a lamp shining on a table usually crowded with guests. Next day we departed for Newlands.

Sweet, gentle, kind Lady Amabel. She had, as I have told you, begun to penetrate the cause of my occasional dejection: occasional—for there were times when I had no doubt of Clarence Fairfax’s attachment. But she had her misgivings about Mrs Rashleigh, whom she spoke of once or twice as a “dangerous woman;” and this was a strong expression for Lady Amabel. She now drew from me a part of “Love’s sad history,” and expressed her regrets at Clarence’s departure without opening his mind to her. In many ways she betrayed uneasiness at the idea of Mrs Rashleigh’s determination to follow the authorities to the frontier.

How solitary now to me were those long, green vistas at Newlands! The fountain of Egeria had its own peculiar melancholy charm, and many early morning hours were passed in these bowers, consecrated in memory to love and happiness.

Letters soon arrived, bringing us hopeful intelligence of peace with Kafirland; but an immense press of business was likely to detain Sir Adrian for some time. He even talked of a journey to Natal, on the northeastern coast; but, the fear of absolute and immediate danger removed, visitors poured in to offer their congratulations, for Lady Amabel had endeared herself to many.

The despatches contained a note for me. I put it aside till I could open it in solitude. It was full of kindness, and I was comparatively happy.

On the other hand, I was doomed to hear of fêtes and balls got up to celebrate Sir Adrian’s arrival at Graham’s Town, the capital of the frontier. Mrs Rashleigh was doing the honours of his house; her husband and herself were its inmates, and I could detect many a lurking smile on the lips of keen-witted, ill-natured visitors, as they listened to the relation of these “facts and scraps” to Lady Amabel.

Some relations of Sir Adrian’s happened at this time to take up their abode at the Cape. They called at Newlands, and introduced a young man, who had come from England with them, and who brought letters of special introduction to the Governor.

Lady Amabel was indisposed, and I received the guests; they remained to luncheon. Lady Amabel sent to request that they, with Mr Lyle, would remain to dinner. They could not accept the invitation, but Mr Lyle did, and was left tête-à-tête with me.

Handsome, original, and clever, he certainly beguiled away those hours more agreeably than I had expected. He spent the evening with Lady Amabel and myself. She liked him; she said he was “not too clever for us,” in our unsettled, agitated state, for we were only hoping for peace; and she gave him a general invitation to our country residence, to which she had also asked her relatives during their séjour at the Cape. Unaccustomed to thoroughly “private life,” Lady Amabel was happy to throw her house open again to society. We had no fêtes or dinner-parties; we were not gay, but we were cheerful, for every week brought us more hopeful intelligence from the seat of war. I heard less of Mrs Rashleigh and Clarence Fairfax, and believed his excuses for short and hurried notes to me. The interchange of these notes was not quite right; but, although kind, they contained no warm expressions of regard. Lady Amabel considered them harmless, because Clarence signed himself a “Faithful Cousin.” I suppose she had not the heart to forbid what she saw gave me so much pleasure. He was, he said, “overwhelmed with office work.”

Mr Lyle had been sent from England to join a force quartered at Natal, but with especial credentials to the Governor, to whom he enclosed them. He shortly received instruction to remain at Cape Town for the present, Sir Adrian anticipating an opportunity of naming him for a staff appointment.

He visited us almost daily. Lady Amabel was charmed with his attentions. He was ever ready to bring us good news, and on the arrival of despatches would gallop out to Newlands to be the first herald of the tidings.

I have told you that the first impression he made was agreeable—but as for marriage!—

He treated me with a certain air of respect, which, I confess, pleased me exceedingly. He seemed more for my favour than Lady Amabel’s. There was a peculiar kind of cleverness, too, in his conversation, which was new—it was that of educated ability; but he had an original way of discussing questions, and, through the respectful reserve he maintained towards me, I could discover a lurking talent for sarcasm, not ill-natured, but irresistibly amusing. He entertained Lady Amabel very much with his “quiet impertinences,” as she called them, and “drew out” her colonial visitors to an extent they never dreamt of. I own that I was a little mystified; it was some time before I could discover the difference between jest and earnest in this character.

Lady Amabel, as I have told you, though elegant and charming, was an idler; she missed Mr Lyle extremely, when some days passed without a visit from him. It never struck me, till enlightened by his own subsequent revelations, that he withdrew himself from us occasionally in order to be recalled—an absence of two or three days was sure to be followed by a note of invitation to dine at Newlands—and then he came with news, private and political. His credentials had introduced him to the principal families at Cape Town, and he was already well received among them.

He had the talent of adapting himself to the habits and tastes of all classes and both sexes; he could talk politics with officials, and was often asked by Lady Amabel to assist her in entertaining such persons as she had friendly reasons for inviting to Newlands. She thought him a little spoiled, for it did not always suit his mood to talk. She did not discover, nor did I at the time, her own error in spoiling him herself.

He turned all kind Lady Amabel’s foibles to his own account.

No two characters could be more opposite than Lyle’s and Clarence Fairfax’s, and yet both had certain attributes in common; both were brave and daring, but Clarence had less moral courage than Lyle—both loved to conquer, but the one wanted perseverance, and would yield to passion while success was doubtful. I could recall many circumstances which would explain these contrasts in the two characters. Clarence Fairfax, in his resolution to conquer a horse, closed the contest by shooting it dead in the face of his grooms. Lyle seized the reins of one of Sir Adrian’s fiery steeds, and, mounting it when excited to fury, fought with it resolutely, till it quailed beneath his hand, and then galloped it for miles against its will, till it was thoroughly tamed.

People had seen these two men play billiards, and remarked the dashing impetuosity of the one, and the cool, calculating game of the other; the one winning by quiet determination.

Both Lyle and Fairfax sketched well; the first filled his portfolio with wild scenes from storms at sea or battle-pieces, roughly done, but full of spirit—there were also innumerable caricatures—so true as scarcely to be caricatures; Clarence was a graceful artist. Neither liked reading, for reading’s sake; but Clarence could quote many a passage from Moore’s and Byron’s softest poems, while Lyle was more at home with “Thalaba” or “Cain;” but liked better, he said, to shape his opinions from his own observation than from books.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Catastrophe

Rumour began, with bold and busy tongue, to talk more openly of “scandalous reports” from the frontier concerning Mrs Rashleigh. Lady Amabel, always charitable, put them down to the account of a little “natural bitterness” on the part of weak, jealous people, who might depend on Mrs Rashleigh’s influence for invitations to the official parties; but I heard otherwise, and from no other than Mr Lyle. So far, he said, from people being desirous of the entrée at Sir Adrian’s official residence at Graham’s Town, many persons objected to meet Mrs Rashleigh, whose conduct with Fairfax had become notorious. Lyle mentioned Clarence as though he was utterly unconscious of my interest in him, and added, that he knew him slightly—they had been at Westminster together. He did not tell me that Clarence and he had been foes in one of those shocking stand-up fights so common in English schools. Lyle had conquered Clarence, and the latter did not resent the issue of what was declared a fair fight; but the former never forgot that, though victory was his, there were few to cheer him, while the vanquished boy was surrounded by friends.

In short, with many tastes and talents in common, these two men were totally different.

Clarence was accustomed to talk to me chiefly of himself. I began to think of this, as Lyle did homage to talents which he discovered I possessed. Still there were the doubts about jest and earnest. Every day I found out how difficult it was to understand the character of men. Lyle became more marked in his attentions as the time drew near for Sir Adrian’s return; and I—I must confess that I was surprised at having borne Clarence’s absence with patience.

I had had my hours of sorrow and anxiety nevertheless. The dread of a war was dissipated soon after the Governor and his troops had left Cape Town; but diplomatic matters detained them for three months. During that period I never left Lady Amabel; but Lyle made himself acquainted with all the domestic history of Sir Adrian’s proceedings, laughed at the scandal about Mrs Rashleigh and Fairfax, but did not doubt it,—it was too well authenticated; and when he discovered that my countenance was clouded with dismay, affected bitter regret at having wounded my feelings; but smiled incredulously at the idea of my entertaining a serious passion for that young roué.

He did not dwell on this. He knew that in a disposition like mine love reigned triumphant over pride.

Woe is me! I knew so too.

I have tried to detail some of the characteristics of this deeply-designing man; but you would rather have them passed over, and I shrink from the recital. He was determined on retrieving a tottering reputation by an alliance with any one whose friends or fortune might arrest the progress of ruin and disgrace; I was the victim he singled out. My thoughts were far apart from his designs.

I was like a city besieged, with the enemy smiling before me in friendly array, watching to stalk into the gates, awaiting the arrival of a faithless ally.

Lady Amabel and I were at Newlands, expecting tidings from the frontier, and prepared to return to Cape Town to receive Sir Adrian. I was awakened early one morning by the distant sound of guns—it was a salute—it must be the Governor and his suite; they were expected to return by sea. I threw on my dressing-gown, and ran to Lady Amabel’s room.

I met her in the passage; she was all joy. I trembled with agitation, pleasure, and dread.

The carriage drove round within half an hour, and we hastened into Cape Town. The bells were ringing, the ships in the harbour were decorated with flags. Crowds lined the streets; the Governor had landed, and was detained on the shore by a congratulatory deputation. We were received by the throng with loud hurrahs. Peace had been proclaimed, and treaties established, which people believed would be satisfactory. Triumphal arches had been raised within a few hours. On we dashed. We reached Government House just as the guard of honour passed us after receiving Sir Adrian. Every one looked joyous; the mansion resounded again with cheerful voices.

“Here they come! Here they come!” Carriage-wheels approached. Lady Amabel and I ran into the hall. She threw herself upon her husband’s breast. Captain Walton and the military secretary advanced to shake hands with me. They were laughing—quite happy to have escaped the toils of an inglorious warfare. I could not speak.

Lady Amabel greeted them, and looking round, said, “But where is my nephew? Where is Clarence Fairfax?”

And they both answered with another laugh, which Captain Walton checked suddenly, as he caught a glimpse of my frightened face. “Oh! he is quite safe, and very—happy,” said the secretary. “Well,” said Captain Walton; “he is coming back overland with the Rashleighs.”

“Yes,” observed Sir Adrian, in a tone, partly of sarcasm and partly of displeasure; “and he had much better have returned with us. I am by no means satisfied with this arrangement of Mrs Rashleigh’s.”

I was most bitterly disappointed.

Shame to me, I had nearly forgotten to ask after the welfare of my family. I addressed some agitated questions to Captain Walton, who told me all were well.

He had always been kind in his manner to me, and could readily guess the meaning of my melancholy face. My arm trembled on his as we proceeded to the breakfast-room together—that same room where Clarence Fairfax and I had parted in a crowd.

I would fain pass over much that followed. I received a letter from my father. He had heard somewhat of Clarence Fairfax’s “conspicuous attentions to me.” He feared Lady Amabel had been “too indulgent.” Fairfax was the very person to “charm a young girl’s senses,” but he hoped they were not overcome by a fine form and a bewitching manner. My dear father thought too well of me to suppose that I was enthralled by this lively, dashing, handsome young aide-de-camp, who was, to say truth, at the feet of a lady whose reputation had suffered from her carelessness. Every one indeed spoke of Fairfax as a male coquette.

You see, dear friend, my father would not assume that I was “seriously enthralled;” he was not with me to judge for himself. You shall read his letter some day. You will see that though he tried to treat this matter lightly, it weighed upon his mind; he was bent on having me home again. “My darling,” he says, at the close of this letter, “write to me at once; you have never mentioned this affair, which others speak of so carelessly, and your silence makes me anxious. In my anxiety I asked your sister if you alluded to Captain Fairfax in your communications with her, but she tells me no. My love, I long to have you with me again. Captain Walton admitted to me that you were looking ill. He is most kind, and enters into my anxieties. He was unwilling, I could see, to commit Fairfax. In a word, dearest Eleanor, he has more respect for Fairfax than that infatuated young man has for himself…”

Then followed directions for my return, under the care of friends about to leave Cape Town for the eastward settlements. They delayed their departure, and I was detained, to Lady Amabel’s satisfaction, for she had become attached to me. But, albeit firm in her attachments, she was a person, as you may have discovered, ever open to fresh impressions. She was as unsuspicious of evil as I was.

Mr Lyle had made his way, and stood in high favour when Sir Adrian arrived.

He was presented, and joined the circle at dinner that day; he took his station at my side—I was sadly abstracted—he was in his most agreeable vein, and drew me from myself, as usual.

I know, dear friend, you will wonder that the letter I received from home was from my father. I had always belonged more to him than my mother. Marion, you know, was the favourite in her babyhood; and it was my fault, perhaps, as well as my misfortune, that I was always reserved to my mother. I well recollect her once expressing impatience at that reserve; but I never could shake it off; it exists, as you know, to this day. A sensitive child, once repelled, seldom makes another advance, and I have told you that I entered the world just as the best-beloved one was fading from it. My mother had less thought naturally for me than him. I turned to my father—his arms were open, and I rested there.

You have been a member of our family circle for some weeks now; otherwise, how could I bring myself to cast a shade of reproach on my mother, for whom you have so high a respect? Ah! you will not set it down to wrong account.

You see I linger in my wretched history.

I look again into my journal. 16th March. “Clarence has returned; at times dejected; at times excited; he is totally unlike his former self. We are at Newlands again. All these scenes and objects associated with happier hours! They bring but bitterness to me. I never approach the fountain of Egeria… When I hear the sound of horses’ feet in those long avenues, I fly—I am ill—I cannot rest—and oh, this crowd! how it oppresses me! How I long for a friend to whom I could impart my sorrow. Oh, for advice!—Dear father! would that I were at home and by thy side. Mother, you would take your stricken daughter to your arms. Though weak and ill, how strong within me is the power of suffering…”

You say, Major Frankfort, that you love me; I believe you; you will love me ever, for you will ever pity me; and so, knowing what your heart will feel on reading this, I will not shed all my miserable thoughts of this period upon paper.

All this time Lyle was intent upon his purpose. He felt my fate was in his hands.

He took up a new position.

I was sitting one morning in Lady Amabel’s boudoir. A servant ushered in Mr Lyle. He started back; “It was Lady Amabel he came to see,” he said.

I begged him to be seated, and rose to go for her.

He detained me gently.

How specious he was—how blind was I! He had “been studying me for weeks;” from the first moment we met, he “had been deeply interested in me. He had perceived the shade that an early sorrow had cast round me, and had come to ask Lady Amabel if there was no hope for him; he would not press the question on me now, it would be unkind.”