Jasper Lyle

I believed that he felt for me from his soul; that he would have “given worlds for a look which would bid him not quite despair; but this was not the time to assail me. He knew I had pride; it was blinded now, but the mist would clear away, the scales would fall from my eyes. I should do him justice; he grieved that the world should have dared to tamper with my name—.” He quite frightened me as he said this. I was oppressed with a sense of bitterness and wrong, against which I was powerless; but here was one who seemed disposed to do me justice. I wished to do right. Lady Amabel would have been all kindness had I unburdened my full heart to her, but she would not have understood me; she would have proposed a ride or a drive, or a fête, or might have sent for Clarence, to scold him. Ah me! I had not a friend at hand who could give me good advice; and here sat this clever experienced, silver-tongued man, offering me his sympathy, and teaching me to believe he was the only one near me who could feel for me—who had, in fact, any real regard for me; and this regard was offered so humbly that I had not a word to say against the expression of it. On the one hand was Clarence Fairfax, reckless of my affection, ignoring it indeed, and, as Lyle remarked, with indignation he protested he could not suppress, “insulting me publicly, by doing homage before my face to a shameless woman, whose triumph was the greater in that she had drawn this infatuated young man from one so lovely and pure-hearted as myself.”

My tears rained down upon the work-table on which he leaned, contemplating me with an expression of compassion new to me, yet not unpleasing.

I began to think I had found a friend.

More company on that evening! I longed to return to the quiet of home; but unavoidable delays kept me back. We were to leave Newlands for Cape Town next day. An irresistible impulse seized me—I stole out at dusk, to take a last look at the Grove. I walked swiftly through the avenues, ascended the mound, and went to our old accustomed seat under the plane-tree.

The darkness and the silence that prevailed were in accordance with the gloom that hung over my soul.

At last I bade adieu for ever to this spot, so painfully dear to me. I descended to the avenue. A tall figure approached me—it was Lyle’s—“I thought,” said he, “that I should find you here; but be not alarmed, I shall not return with you. I recognised your figure leaving the house, and came to prepare you for meeting with Mrs Rashleigh to-night; she is to be among the guests. Lady Amabel’s position with regard to this woman is most difficult—but a crisis is at hand; Fairfax is completely in her toils—an esclandre must take place soon. I beseech you do not add to this bad woman’s triumph to-night by that heart-broken demeanour which you have lately worn. Ah! Miss Daveney, I shall look for your entrée with an anxious eye and beating heart. Pardon my presumption in thus intruding on you, but my interest in your happiness must be my excuse.”

He took my hand in his, but dropped it immediately, with a sigh; and, lifting his hat, disappeared in an avenue.

I went to Lady Amabel’s dressing-room. I had not the courage to enter the saloons alone. I need not have been afraid. Clarence was not there when I joined the circle; but I felt as if all the guests were looking at me. I condemned myself for the next few hours to wear “That falsest of false things, a mask of smiles.”

Lyle’s eye met mine—it seemed to haunt me.

It was an alfresco fête. The heat of the season was over, but the nights were soft and mild. One of the long arcades was enclosed, and lit with variegated lamps; a brilliant moon illuminated the lime-groves; every arrangement was made to conduce to the splendour and pleasure of the scene.

I could not stand up to dance. My knees trembled, my teeth chattered, and I felt my lips turn pale as Clarence Fairfax drew near with Mrs Rashleigh. I could not look at her; she was laughing and talking in her usual bold strain, and answering for Clarence questions that were addressed to himself. He saw me not, though he cast himself beside me on the couch—his sash streamed over my dress, his sword rested against my hand, his spur touched my foot. I withdrew it quickly, and moved aside; he begged my pardon for incommoding me. I turned to him to bow, and the crimson tide flushed that fine face. He started up nervously. Mrs Rashleigh rose, too, took his arm, and led him off. She named me to him in my hearing. I heard him say, “Hush! Anna, for mercy’s sake; don’t remind me of my misdeed.”

“Anna!”—they were indeed on very familiar terms.

She was robed imperially that evening, and looked wonderfully youthful. Whispers passed from lip to lip, as she and Clarence passed up the apartment, and went out into the lime-grove. Others were following them. I sat, trying to talk to Lyle, and smiling vacantly at the polite recognitions of some of the guests.

Lady Amabel came up to me. “My dear child,” said she, “you look quite ill—come into the air. Mr Lyle, give Miss Daveney your arm.”

But I begged to withdraw for a little while, and Lady Amabel excused me.

The library was the only room unoccupied on this festal night. A single lamp stood on the table. The windows of this room opened to that dark walk overshadowed by the mountain. Here there were no illuminations—no crowd of dancers. I extinguished the lamp, and sat down by the open window.

Two figures were walking slowly up and down the avenue. They stepped a few paces beyond the shadow of the mountain, into the moonlit path. It was Mrs Rashleigh and Clarence Fairfax. She was talking vehemently; he was entreating her to be calm.

I sat, transfixed; had a voice from the grave summoned me, I could not have obeyed.

She was reproaching him for some imagined neglect. He told her that she fancied it. Now her tones were those of passion, vehement and imperious; he implored her, for her own sake, to restrain her wrath.

It is impossible to relate to you all I saw and heard, as, statue-like, I leaned against the window—bitter imprecations were heaped on my own head. Clarence would have burst from her at this, but she cast herself upon his bosom, and clung there, pouring forth the most passionate expressions of love and regret. “Would he desert her? She should die! She only lived in his presence. He saw her gay and brilliant in society—Oh! if he knew the dark hours she passed without him.”

They moved slowly, close by the window; she was talking to him, with her head resting on his shoulder. She was speaking of her husband—complaining of him—for Clarence uttered his name in an angry tone, and then whispering, “My poor Anna! and you suffered this for me!” folded her in his arms, and embraced her wildly.

They were within a yard of me, and I dared not move. Icy cold were my hands, clasped together; my eyeballs burned and throbbed, but no tears came to their relief. I seemed to realise the sensation that Niobe must have felt on being turned to stone.

They leaned against the window—some one approached—they started, and were moving on, when the angry voice of the outraged Mr Rashleigh arrested the steps of the guilty pair. The wretched woman screamed aloud, and clung to Clarence, who, on Mr Rashleigh raising his hand to strike him, received a blow on the arm he had lifted to ward it.

It was Lyle who had thus brought about this terrible esclandre, though of this no one then was aware. It was he who, as the crowd moved to a refreshment tent, had put a slip of paper into Mr Rashleigh’s hands, warning him of his wife’s delinquency, and the scorn in which he was held for his contemptible indifference to her shamelessness. He was informed of her whereabouts at that instant.

Mr Rashleigh opened this document in the sight of many persons; its tone of contempt galled him to the quick, and, forgetting all consequences but the desire of revenge, he rushed at once to the scene of his disgrace.

I fainted—some one lifted me from the floor. It was Lyle—he carried me into Lady Amabel’s boudoir; she was there, walking nervously up and down. She received me with tears. Lyle withdrew. I felt grateful for his sympathy, and the kind and delicate manner in which he had expressed it.

Chapter Fourteen.

Strife

I saw Clarence Fairfax but once again.

The exposure which had taken place separated the Rashleighs for ever. Challenges were interchanged between the gentlemen at the same hour.

The selfish woman who had thus brought disgrace on her husband, herself, and the man she had infatuated by her art, lost all prudence in her ungovernable state of excitement, and wrote a passionate appeal, from her retirement near Newlands, entreating Captain Fairfax to see her once again. But Sir Adrian had placed his nephew under arrest. Mrs Rashleigh had the hardihood to endeavour to force her way into his quarters by night; she was repelled from the door at the point of the bayonet, the sentry having due orders to prevent the ingress of such a visitor. In vain she implored, in vain she stormed.

Captain Walton kept watch upon his brother aide-de-camp within, and would not let him yield to the temptress.

Clarence resigned his appointment on his uncle’s staff, and was ordered to England forthwith.

Lady Amabel and I were in the library with Sir Adrian when his nephew entered to take his leave. It was before official hours, and such a meeting was wholly unexpected on our part, nor perhaps had he anticipated it.

Lady Amabel could not pass him by; her heart was full—her eyes swimming with tears as he caught her hand.

“Dear aunt,” said he, “you will wish me well.”

“Sit down, Amabel; sit down, Miss Daveney,” said Sir Adrian.

“Yes, Clarence, they will both wish you well; I do, from my soul; I take some blame to myself in this wretched business; but what is done cannot be undone. You have been the victim of that wretched, worthless being, whom it would be an insult to name here. Sit down, my lad, amongst us again; we are all deucedly sorry to part with you; when we meet again, you will be all the wiser for this business, I hope. I hardly like to let you go, but I suppose I must. I shall not get on at all well without you, my dear boy. Confound that devil.

“Well, Amabel, it is enough to make any one swear; for, now that she is fairly down, every one comes forward to say that she ought to have been banished from society long ago. I don’t pity her one bit,” continued the General, rising and pacing the chamber; “but I am heartily vexed to think she has seduced my sister’s son, and in this affair she is the seducer, not Clarence.”

“Oh! sir, I deserve more reproaches than you dream of,” replied his nephew. “I cannot stay; I unworthy of any kindness or consideration. Aunt, God bless you.”

Lady Amabel was sobbing audibly.

I stood mute and tearless.

Something like “Good-bye” was whispered. I looked up in that face, once so ingenuous, so happy. The laughing eyes were clouded with melancholy; the saucy curled lip pale and compressed; the tall, graceful form trembling with emotion. Not one word could I utter. My fingers closed upon his shaking hand for an instant. I withdrew them. He had pressed them so tightly in his nervous agony, that the indentation of a little ring I wore drew blood.

“Poor child! poor child!” said Sir Adrian, very kindly—a sudden thought about me causing him to stop and look fixedly at my sad countenance; “I pity you, too, from my heart. Amabel, this has been a sad business; it has moved me more than I like to own.”

I looked up—Clarence Fairfax was gone!

The vacant appointment of aide-de-camp was offered to Mr Lyle; I applauded his delicacy when he told me he could not accept it under the circumstance of Clarence’s disgrace.

I rather quailed, though, at that term, “disgrace,” applied to “poor Clarence,” as Lady Amabel began to designate him as soon as he departed.

Another staff appointment fell vacant in the frontier districts. Lyle applied for and obtained it.

He was happy, he said, in the prospect of being associated with me hereafter, but did not press his suit.

It was not long before I followed him to the upper districts of South Africa.

Lady Amabel and I parted with sorrow; she had been ever kind to me; her very errors were those of a tender-hearted, loving woman, and what would it have booted me had she been strong-minded and resolute? Clarence Fairfax’s nature was fickle—I will add no more.

My journey homeward was a melancholy one; my friends were kind—you know them—Mrs and Miss C—; but I retired within myself, and they had the good taste not to weary me with their sympathy.

On the last day of our journey we halted on the banks of a rapid river; night fell, and we were about to close the wagons and seek repose, when we heard voices on the opposite bank. Your little bushman May was one of our drivers—he had been in our service before, and came to tell me that he recognised my father’s voice. I ran from my tent to the brink of the river; it was dark, and the rushing of the waters among the stones in the ford prevented my distinguishing any other sound; at last I heard my father nailing us—he was in the middle of the stream—he came nearer—some one accompanied him—two horsemen rode up the bank—my father and—Lyle!

I had not been two days at home before I discovered that Lyle had established himself in my mother’s favour—he was quite a person calculated to make a decided impression on her imagination—for, sensible, well-principled, and firm-minded, as she is, you know she is highly excitable and imaginative. The late émeute in Kafirland had brought my father from Annerley to B—, a small town largely garrisoned. Here Lyle held his appointment—here my father was now acting in a high official capacity in the absence of one of the authorities; both were thus brought together professionally. Lyle necessarily had the entrée of our house.

Original in design, prompt to act, and of a determined spirit, Lyle was a most useful coadjutor to my father. His quickness of perception taught him at once all the assailable points, so to speak, in my mother’s character, appealing to her judgment frequently in Government matters; and, although doing this apparently in jest, constantly abiding by her propositions. It was fortunate that her experience in the colony was such as to make her advice really available, and this artful man turned it to full account publicly and privately. He knew well how to please my father, who had not at first been inclined towards him as my mother was; whenever the former gave him credit for good policy, he would refer him to Mrs Daveney as the suggester of the plan; my mother would disclaim the suggestion, but would confess that Lyle had appealed to her ere he began to work it.

At a time when this beautiful colony was on the verge of ruin from the commotions subsisting between the various races of inhabitants, you may well believe that men of comprehensive mind and dauntless courage were invaluable to the Government. My father and Lyle, both personally known to Sir Adrian, were constantly selected by him for the most difficult and dangerous services; and it is due to the latter to admit, that he was ever ready for the severer duties of the field, entreating my father to consider how much more valuable was the life of the one than the other.

The soldiers adored him; in his capacity as a staff-officer he was not expected to volunteer heading large bodies of the settlers, accompanying commandos into Kafirland; but he did so with a spirit and efficiency that materially assisted the Government agents in their measures with the chiefs. He shared the fatigues and privations of those he commanded, he was ever first in a foray, and he was such an excellent sportsman, that his return with a foraging party was always welcomed by the hungry wanderers in the bush.

Were this man still living, dear friend, I could not dwell on these details; but, assured of his death, I have been able to review much of my past life more calmly than I could ever suppose would be possible.

This clever, handsome, resolute man had, as I afterwards found, resolved, in the first period of our acquaintance, on making me his wife—you will wonder why,—since there was little love on his part, and my poor heart was bleeding from a sense of wrong at the hands of one I had loved. But I began to be ashamed of my girlish passion, verily not without reason.

Nevertheless, youth receives such impressions readily, fake though they be, and afterwards the heart shudders at the bare remembrance of what it suffered in its bewilderment of a first passion; the experience taught by such a sorrow is very bitter, and can never be forgotten.

I cannot bear to detail the artful schemes by which this man persuaded my father at first to listen to his proposals for me; but, on my assurance that I loved him not, Lyle was forbidden to press his suit farther, at any rate for a time.

Thus he was not dismissed finally; he declared himself grievously mortified, and, obtaining leave of absence during a lull in the political storms that had threatened to desolate the country, departed on a sporting expedition.

He returned in three months laden with the spoils of the chase, and designated the White Somtsen, or, in the Kafir language, a mighty hunter.

He again renewed his suit.

Woe is me! I could see that my father and my mother were not agreed in this matter; the latter openly reproached me for my weakness in adhering to my first love—she appealed to my pride.

Alas, alas! my friend, I own that I had been wanting in that—I admitted my error, and deplored it.

She spoke of the family reputation being sullied by the union of my name with that of Clarence Fairfax and the miserable Mrs Rashleigh.

I could not see it in the light she did, but I wept sorely when she alluded to the mortification it had caused her and my father; she emphasised the last two words of this sentence.

She dwelt on a difference of opinion now existing between her and my father—“it might estrange them seriously.”

I trembled, and began to waver in my resolution.

She said that the esclandre had been injurious to my sister’s prospects in life.

I feared that I had been more to blame than I had believed.

I said “the world was very hard.”

“Very,” replied my mother—“so hard, that your imprudence has been visited on all of us. I have been blamed for launching you into the gaieties of life at Cape Town, with all its incidental temptations. Marion is pointed out as the sister of ‘that flirt, Miss Daveney, Mrs Rashleigh’s rival;’ and your father reproaches himself for not remaining with you when he discovered that Lady Amabel Fairfax had lost rather than gained in strength of character—”

I could have said, “Ah! mother, how do you learn what the world says of us?—who dares tell you these things?” I was not aware then that Lyle, in his own specious, deprecatory way, was her informant, directly or indirectly—“grieving to set such unpleasant truths before her, but deeming it his duty to do so.”

You will wonder that a clever woman like my mother did not see through this systematic deceit; but she was bitterly annoyed at the issue of Clarence Fairfax’s attentions to me; she fancied herself pointed at by the finger of pity—you know how sensitive she is on this point—and she was impatient at my belief that Clarence had loved me. “Had he ever told me so seriously? Was I blind enough to believe him in earnest? He had never loved me; his regard, such as it was, was contemptible.”

More, much more, she said—I admitted that Clarence had never been my acknowledged lover; but—

“Are there no looks, mute, but most eloquent?”

I confessed that he was fickle—“And vain?”—“Yes.” “And selfish, and heartless, and unprincipled!”

I could not answer these allegations—I dared not say he had been the victim of a vicious woman, years older than himself, and deeply versed in intrigue. I had once ventured to speak in this strain, and had drawn forth words of scorn and anger, which my mother afterwards repented using, but which I ever dreaded to evoke again.

But the climax of Lyle’s art lay in an incident I shall record.

My father and I were riding one day, sauntering through a kloof, when we were overtaken by him. At the end of this kloof was a branch of a rapid stream. Here it was deep and dangerous; but my horse and I knew the ford well—Lyle rode a little behind me. In the middle of the stream my horse began to plunge among the stones—my father was a few yards in advance; he could not easily turn to my aid, owing to the strength of the current—I was alarmed, yet tried to restrain the animal, but he plunged the more; Lyle, with his powerful arm, drew me from my saddle, and bore me before him safely across the drift—my horse was swept down—it is the same old grey we pet sometimes; he was found two days after, hanging to a branch by his bridle, having found a footing on the bank.

Can you conceive a man afterwards boasting of this trick? It was Lyle who had made the animal plunge that he might rescue me, and thus place me under a supposed obligation for my life!

My mother insisted on my going into society—she was doubtless right; but you know what society consists of in a great garrison,—a few ladies, crowds of gentlemen, and some women, whose friendship is far from desirable; I believe some of the latter were unsparing in their scandalous chronicles of Cape Town, when Mrs Rashleigh and I were both made subjects of remark. The girl of seventeen, the daughter of a representative of authority, and of a mother whose abilities and lofty aspirations rendered her an object of fear and dislike with many, was not likely to be dealt with gently by these idle, frivolous, uneducated women; the story of Miss Daveney’s “liaison” with Captain Fairfax lost nothing in such hands; and although most of our earliest friends stood by us through good report and evil report, these were not many, and it was evident that the faith of some was shaken. Lyle took care that my father and mother should see this—he alluded to it with indignation, and avowed himself more devoted than ever—

“My mither urged me sair, my father could na speak, But he looked in my face—”

I asked for time—I sincerely believed that I had banished Clarence from my heart, if not from my mind. I accustomed myself to receive Lyle’s attentions; they were offered, though not offensively, in the sight of other men, and in an evil hour for all, I yielded.

I admired Lyle—I admired his courage, his abilities, his apparently independent spirit, his resolution; I was perpetually told that his perseverance deserved reward.

I married him, believing that I felt a regard and admiration for him, which would ripen into affection. How much it has already cost me to set down these details, these reasons, or excuses—if you think the last word the truest—for consenting to a union which has blighted so many years of my young life!

I have him before me now. I hear the solemn adjuration of the minister of God, as we stood before the altar of the little church of B—: “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.” I looked up at the tall, powerful man standing beside me. Never shall I forget his countenance—his features were suffused with a leaden hue, which faded to a deadly pallor, his lips were colourless, and he leaned against the altar-rails for support; but he recovered himself by a strong effort, and repeated the responses distinctly, though in a low time, and with his eyes fixed on the ground.

We retired for a time to a beautiful village near the sea. I soon noticed that my husband was moody, silent, but not unkind. I tried to please him; I fancied that I must be a dull companion for one so clever.

We had been married about two months, when I discovered that my husband was expecting letters from England; he was evidently anxious about these. And why? He had described himself to my family as being without a single relation on earth, except the uncle from whom he had brought recommendatory letters; he had made a fair settlement on me, and my father had placed before him a due account of his finances and my prospects. My father was then a wealthy landholder in Albany; but, unfortunately, he had placed the greater part of his savings in one of those great banking-houses in India, which failed so suddenly as to ruin thousands.