Jasper Lyle

“To Sir John Manvers, Bart, K.C.B.”

“Known only to the Daveneys, their immediate friends, and myself!” Sir John Manvers stopped from time to time in his circumscribed walk, and read and re-read these odious and degrading words frequently during the night, and as the sun poured his beams athwart the sickly lamp, he held the letter to the flame, and finally casting the blackened paper to the ground, crushed the ashes beneath his boot.

“So so—I am a gazing-stock for the Daveneys and their immediate friends,—that soft-voiced, cautious missionary, that idler Ormsby, that Frankfort, who writes such d—d laconic memoranda, that are in reality orders! I am a mark for bad men’s scorn and good men’s pity. Good men! What constitutes a good man? Is he one whom the devil has not been permitted to tempt?—permitted to tempt, mark that!

“That one fatal error of my life. Was it my misfortune or my crime that the citadel of my heart was weak, and that I could not drive out the Tempter, who had been permitted to besiege and enter it?

“I am utterly confounded—which way shall I turn?—There seems but one remedy.”

He took up a pistol which lay, loaded only with powder, on the table. With this he was wont to summon his valet, who occupied a tent too distant to distinguish any other call.

Had it been loaded with ball, he might have lifted it to his head. He cast it impatiently from him; the trigger caught in his watch-chain, and the weapon went off. The valet, who stood with his master’s coffee at hand, entered the marquee almost immediately.

The General instinctively turned his back upon his servant; the latter, accustomed to execute his duties without observation and without, thanks, placed the little tray, with its small silver service, on the table, and stood waiting further orders.

“You may go,” said the General, in his usual voice; and the valet retired.

It is indeed strange how a mind torn for hours by conflicting emotions can in a moment, when pressed by necessity, bring itself to act in the most trifling occurrences of life; reaction once produced, the brain partially recovers its tone.

The morning light, the sound of the stirring réveillé, its bugle echoes answering each other from kloof to kloof, the rattle of accoutrements, and the roll of the martial drums, with their shrill accompaniments, the fifes, awoke the little world around.

Day is well represented as scattering roses in her path, for she brings much comfort to the wretched, whose wretchedness is not all of their own making. Amid the multitude who wake to the sunlight, some kind hand may be stretched out to those who suffer. Hope is ever moving among the crowd, but her mirror, remember, turns its bright face only to the repentant—the truly repentant—to those who lift up their hearts to an offended God, and pray that they may sin no more. Those who suffer remorse, and dread only the world’s contempt, have no part in the bright promises of Hope; and all the freshness and the fragrance that life offers to the humbly sorrowful falls to dust and ashes before the breath of pride, which trembles before man, but seeks to defy the very laws divine.

Yes; Sir John Manvers repented him truly of his former sin, not because he feared God, but because he dreaded man’s scorn and pity.

Reader, do we not see this day by day?

Sir John Manvers’s destruction of Sir Adrian Fairfax’s letter was perfectly characteristic of the man. It was a written record against him, therefore it should perish; and could he have seen all those who were initiated in his secret perish likewise, he would have gone forth to the world apparently unmoved, or with satisfaction so predominant as to smother all remorseful sentiments.

Still they did not know all.

The real secret lay dormant in a little dark nook in one of the remotest corners of Cornwall, and was inscribed in letters, now somewhat browned by time, in a huge old volume, a parish register, kept as securely as if the clergyman’s whole welfare depended on the safety of its contents, in a dim oak-wainscoted Vestry-room of a dilapidated church.

In a leaf of that register might be read these words, among the Marriages solemnised in the parish of G—, county of Cornwall.

“John Lyle and Mary L—, residing at G—.

“In the presence of us, etc, etc.”

By this time, dear reader, you will have given up all hopes of learning the early part of Sir John Manvers’s history from himself. He was not the man to indite a record of his sin, or “folly,” as he would probably have termed it, even to his friend Sir Adrian Fairfax. I shall therefore relate as succinctly as possible those events connected with his opening career which influenced him through life, and finally brought him to the strait in which he stands so miserably before you.

His first prospects were uncheering. His father held a small curacy in Devonshire, and the circumstance of this poor curate marrying the daughter of a baronet, in whose household he held the appointment of chaplain, instead of leading to prosperous results, was the means of impeding his progress in the Church. The union was cursed with the deep and undying resentment of the lady’s father, and the poor curate struggled on till the grave gave him that rest which earth had denied the living.

The wife he had chosen was not worthy of him. She had married him from pique, and when he felt the world’s frowns most keenly, she told him so. But she did not often remind him of the wrong she had “done herself.” Cold, sullen, impatient of misfortune, and angry with him whose fault had been in loving her too well, she nursed her wrath in silence. But it was stamped upon her haughty brow, her dilated nostril, her curled lip. She lived upon it! She looked upon the whole world as her enemy; but the world did not think her worth quarrelling with—some called her “poor Mrs Lyle.”

“Poor Mrs Lyle! Who made me so?” she would say; and then, because her Christian husband met her scorn without retort, she would utter some bitter word, indicative of contempt, and relapse again into gloom.

But the iron entered into his soul. He died, leaving her with a son, who had little knowledge of his father, save that his mother spoke of him as the author of all her misfortunes.

The child did not understand this. All he could recollect of his father was the good man’s deathbed—the thin hands held out to wife and child—and pale lips parting, and blessing them that had mocked him; for the boy had been taught to laugh his father to scorn.

An elder brother allowed Mrs Lyle a small annuity. She accepted it, grumbling, because it was scanty; but the baronetcy was not rich, and the brother did more for the sister than she deserved, for she had always been ungracious.

Her son, although he resembled her, was not happy in her society; he was glad when he went to school, and he found companions there who drew out his better qualities; at sixteen his uncle desired that he should be sent as a private pupil to a clergyman; at seventeen he lost his mother; and at twenty, his uncle being also dead, he found himself without a profession, and with two thousand pounds, a remnant of his mother’s fortune, for patrimony.

One being in the world loved this proud and gloomy boy—she was the daughter of the Cornish clergyman whose pupil he had been. She was not beautiful, but there was a graceful gaiety about her which relieved him from himself. The principles of this poor motherless creature were not what her father imagined them to be; indeed, he was too learned to have much knowledge of human nature; but when he discovered the result of Lyle’s intimacy with his daughter, the old man’s grief and terror were overwhelming.

The sight of those white hairs bent to the dust with shame and sorrow, was more than Lyle could bear—he, who had never known the strength of a parent’s love, was overcome. He married his victim—married her on her deathbed: for, five hours afterwards he was a widower, and the father of a son—the convict, Jasper Lyle.

The poor old clergyman wrote the record himself in the parish register, and died the day after. By one of those fatalities which for a time are permitted, to arrest the course of truth’s clear stream, the medical attendant and the nurse, who were the only people present at this melancholy bridal, were laid together in the narrow churchyard of the remote village, and the poor boy was committed to the care of a woman, who, so long as she was regularly paid, was content to let him share her scanty living with her own children. This woman believed the boy to be young Lyle’s natural son, for her husband was a new-comer in the village, and neither of them could read, nor had they any acquaintances there. After a while they left it, and carried young Jasper to London. The stipend paid for him was unexpectedly raised to what was to them a considerable annuity.

The baronetcy of Manvers, for want of male heirs, passed to the female line, and, at the age of five-and-twenty, John Lyle found himself, by an unlooked-for concurrence of circumstances, Sir John Manvers, with but a slender income for his position.

Interest, however, got him a commission, though he was beyond the regulated age—interest placed him on the staff of the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and he, whose destinies had once appeared of no account, was now the admired favourite of a showy court, for such might then be termed the official residence of the Duke of L—, in Dublin. His tall, aristocratic form, his grave beauty, his proud reserve, attracted the attention of the elegant and witty Duchess of L—, and her admiration stamped him with a prestige surprising even to himself.

His past love! what was it now to him?—a dream-one, however, to which he looked back with uneasiness, for was there not a living witness of this “fantasy?” Every day, every hour, deepened the gulf between him and the dark paths of his young life. He had never made a friend. No one stood at hand to whom he might unburden his soul, and each succeeding week found him placed more irrevocably in a false position. He was looked upon as a rising man, poor in patrimony, but sure to force his way to better things.

While he was halting between two opinions, a familiar face suddenly carried him back to the old parsonage, and its dim and silent groves.

Although we may not have been intimate with an early associate, our hearts are strangely stirred at sight of one with whom we have been in communion under circumstances different or distant from those in which we again meet.

Something of pleasure lit up Sir John’s intelligent eye as he recognised the open countenance of Sir Adrian Fairfax, who was younger than himself, and whom he had known during the last few months of his residence at the vicarage; they were the first months of love—months in which life had been presented to him in its happiest phase.

But while the proud mind was debating which ought to be the first to speak, a vision stood between the two which riveted the gaze of both, and turned the current of young Manvers’s thoughts.

It was the Lady Amabel, who in all the purity of beautiful and innocent sixteen, suddenly appeared—the lily of the dazzling parterre. She leaned on the arm of the Duke of L—, and moved up the room to the dais, on which the Duchess was seated with the handsome and favourite aide-de-camp.

But love is ever at cross purposes. The heart of this gentle being stirred not, the eye was not illumined, as the young and handsome baronet bent over her. She smiled when Sir Adrian came to greet her; but he, at whose approach she blushed and trembled like a rose at morning prime, was Daveney, then a young ensign, without a prospect in the world save that to which blind fortune might lead him.

But the reader has seen that Daveney thought not of his gentle cousin. Both were much together in the early part of that brilliant Dublin season: but the young soldier changed his quarters—some said he withdrew purposely from the light of those eyes, that tempted him to love one whom it would be ruin to marry—some, that he was blind—some, that he was heartless; no matter—they were sundered.

Meanwhile Sir John’s heart was chilled towards one in whom he might have found a friend; and when some months afterwards he saw that Lady Amabel suffered Sir Adrian to talk to her for hours, the circumstance widened the gulf.

Later, at the age of eight-and-twenty, Manvers became associated in Ireland with the sweet and gracious being who eventually became his wife. She had wealth, connection, talent, and, above all, the most amiable disposition. The grave, austere young soldier was drawn imperceptibly towards this happy, ardent being. She shone upon him like sunlight upon snow—she was like a beam from heaven gilding the darkest recesses of a mine.

He might have told her all. Many a time he was disposed to throw himself at her feet, and disclose his early history; but her father—it was from her mother she derived the stamp of aristocracy—was a parvenu. Manvers dreaded, to lose this first real love, this darling of his heart and albeit she would have gone with him to the desert, he knew full well that his title and military interest, weighed heavily in his favour with the father.

He kept his secret, and married the heiress; and, in the course of time, he had almost forgot the very existence of his eldest born, when one day he received a letter from the woman Watson, informing him that his son had run away from her home; the boy, she said, must have been led astray, and she hoped to trace him. The annuity must be paid as usual. She doubted not he would be found, in same of the haunts of the metropolis, and she would inform Sir John as soon as she received tidings of the boy.

Upon this, after some hours’ deliberation, Sir John Manvers wrote to Mrs Watson, and, making it a condition that she should never again address him on the subject of this miserable child, he settled an annuity of two hundred a year on this woman and her husband for the boy’s maintenance, till of age, if he returned and reached the age of one-and-twenty. At the age of one-and-twenty some other steps were to be considered.

Sir John believed that the Watsons had some reason for endeavouring to overreach him, but it was not so in this instance; the child really was missing.

The man Watson would have pocketed the annuity without acting further in the matter. Mrs Watson was “used to the child,” and “had a liking for him;” so she did her best to discover him, but for a long time without success. Her husband kept back part of the sum allowed, and she afterwards learned that he bribed some infamous people to keep young Jasper out of the way of his nurse, who, though without firm principles, was not bad-hearted.

Sir John soon began to hope—God forgive him!—that he should hear no more of the poor boy cast upon the troubled waters of the world. In those days there were no railways, nor electric telegraphs, nor police; sin prospered much more secretly than it does now. Even now the little church in Cornwall lies remote from populous places, for no iron road can penetrate through the rugged defiles that lead to it.

Oh! that men would consider the future, and calculate even the chances of the evils which may accumulate from the commission of one solitary sin.

We are inclined to pity the youth, who in the poor curate’s daughter found relief after the gloomy days spent at home, and surely for him whose heart was softened at the sight of the father’s anguish them were hopes of better things; but his besetting demon was pride—pride fostered by his mother. Oh mothers! do you deeply weigh your responsibilities?—do you remember that it is to your hands the virgin soil of the garden foils for culture?

And lo! see what a strait this pride brought him to at last! And is it not always so? Are we not perpetually punished by the very instruments we have ourselves employed for evil? Do we not constantly stumble at the pit we have digged to serve our own purposes?

Pride made Sir John Manvers hesitate ere he recognised Sir Adrian Fairfax in the lighted saloons of Dublin Castle; he would have been his friend, but the opportunity was lost; and, though in after-years the incidents of their profession brought them nearer to each other, it then was too late to remedy the evil.

When a man is embarked in a bad scheme, he is at no loss for reasons, or rather excuses, for persevering in mischief; and Sir John Manvers, becoming day by day more accustomed to look on the sin he had committed as an error which could not be repaired, at last satisfied himself with the notion, that to place his son in his true position would be to entail irremediable sorrow on his household, and in nowise benefit the unfortunate Jasper.

Jasper!—what could have induced him to permit the child to be called after his grandfather, that poor, imbecile, wretched old curate?

Still, who was likely to search through an old parish register, and, in doing so, who would stop to inquire into the identity of John Lyle and his wife Mary and their son Jasper?

The very devils, we are told, “believe and tremble;” but how short-sighted are men, who only calculate on human chances!

No; there was little chance of the old yellow-leaved parish register of Tremorna ever being brought in evidence against him; and, besides, where was this boy—this Jasper?

Nurse Watson at length traced the child at last to some den of iniquity in the heart of London. She had a woman’s heart—it yearned to Jasper—he was a fine, manly child; and when she had relieved him of his soiled habiliments, and purified his strong young limbs with water, she was pleased with herself at having rescued this gentleman’s son from filth and vice.

She had, it is true, no fixed principles; but she had benefited by this child. She and her husband and children were living in ease and plenty on the money paid for him; and she believed that, in spite of what he had said, his father would rejoice at hearing that the lost sheep was found and in safe keeping.

She sought Sir John at his house in one of the squares; she was ungraciously received by his confidential valet, who would not give her admittance to his master. She was of a passionate and determined temper, and, enraged at the imperative tone of the saucy London menial, she told him, in plain terms, that as he would not let her see Sir John, whom she had watched into the house a few minutes before, he might carry the message himself, and tell him that “Jasper was found.”

Her voice was raised, her cheeks were crimson, her eyes flashed at the cool impertinence of Sir John’s “gentleman,” and at this juncture a lady descended the staircase and crossed the hall.

Lady Manvers, for it was she, stopped at once; and instead of retiring, as some fine ladies would have done, or ordering the angry woman from the hall, she walked quietly up to Mrs Watson, and with a look of reproof to the valet, whose temper she knew, said, “My good woman, what is the matter, and who is Jasper?”

The voice, the calm sweet face, the graceful air of the gentle questioner, disarmed the wrath of the irritated woman; but she was at a loss what to say. She stammered, looked confused; the valet’s self-satisfied mien provoked her, and, in a word, Lady Manvers was very soon made aware that her husband had a secret which it was not his intention to share with her.

Lady Manvers trembled exceedingly, but not with anger. No; after a short time she was able to question herself as to what it would be her duty to do. She led Mrs Watson into her dressing-room, and bid her wait there till sent for; but Lady Manvers asked her no questions. No; this high-minded, generous lady went at once to her husband.

She would scarcely have believed the truth from his own lips. She was so proud of him, she would as soon have dreamt of his making her his wife while another claimant to that title lived, as of his having an heir to his estate unknown to her, the mother of his beautiful boy, his darling Gerard.

Sir John was utterly startled and thrown off his guard, as his wife, in her softest accent, but with her clear honest eyes fixed on his, asked him to “trust her with the secret which the woman Watson would not tell?” Who was Jasper? Who was Mrs Watson? Surely, if there was concealment, there must be something wrong; or did dear John think she, his own Nina, did not love him as she ought to do? Oh! if he had a sorrow or anxiety, might she not share it? If the sin of an early day hung heavy on his mind, would he not let her bear the burden with him?

And a hundred other such persuasive things she said, hanging on his shoulder, with her sweet face lifted imploringly to his moody countenance.

He bade her wait till evening for his reply; but she would not. She drew from him that Jasper was his son; but, he added, she was never to ask him about the boy’s unfortunate and ruined mother.

So the father tacitly stamped the brand of illegitimacy on the brow of his first-born; and the innocent woman he now deceived thanked him for such concessions as he had made, and resolved, without asking further permission, to send for Jasper.

But when Mrs Watson reached home, he had again absconded; and of this she did not fail to inform Lady Manvers, whose gentleness had won her regard.

The idea of this unfortunate child of ten years old, her husband’s son, wandering from haunt to haunt of iniquity, was a source of perpetual anxiety to Lady Manvers. She drove from one magistrate’s house to another, trying to discover the little recreant. She dreaded compromising her husband, yet was resolved on doing her duty. She met with nothing but courtesy and kindness, but all seemed unavailing; and she was beginning to despair, when, on the eve of departing for Scotland, where Sir John’s regiment was quartered, her attention was riveted by a paragraph in the newspaper, which she could not help connecting with the object of her search.

It was an extract from the minutes of a magistrate’s court. A little boy, “apparently between ten and eleven years,” had been brought before a magistrate, having been found among thieves and pickpockets in some disorderly meeting.

The evidence presented a sorry picture.

There stood the child in the dock.

The magistrate, a man esteemed for his benevolence, examined the little prisoner attentively ere he questioned him. At length the good man said,—“How old are you, my boy?” The child did not answer. The magistrate put the question again. No reply.

“Do you know,” said Mr M—, “how old you are?”

“No,” said the boy, his head bent down.

“Have you been brought here before?”

“No.” Here a constable intimated that this was not true.

“It seems,” said Mr M—, “that you have been brought here before. Why do you say no? Do you know that is a falsehood?”

“No:” still the same dogged look.

“Have you any parents?”

“No.”

“Who do you belong to?”

“No one.”

“Do you know what a lie is?”

“No.”

“Do you know that it is wrong to steal?”

“No.”

“Did you never hear of the Commandments?”

“No.”

“Do you know the name of God?”

“No.”

The kind-hearted magistrate stopped in these interrogatories, and laying down his pen, leaned forward; sorrow shaded his benevolent face as he said,—“My poor boy, what do you know?” (This scene is taken from a record in the Times newspaper of 1850.)

These were the first words of kindness which had ever been spoken to Jasper Lyle in his life, for he was the little prisoner; for though Mrs Watson had, as she expressed, “a liking for him,” she was rough-spoken to her own children, whom she always ordered, never asked, to do her bidding.

The unfortunate child lifted his face to Mr M—, and looked half-wonderingly at it. The mode of speech was evidently beyond his comprehension: he looked round at his evil associates, older by years in crime than he was, and laughed.

The magistrate had the young prisoner removed from the dock, and taken to his own house.

Lady Manvers ordered her carriage as soon as she had finished reading this paragraph. She drove, without delay, to Mrs Watson’s at Lambeth, and then hastened to Mr M—’s.

She found him at home, and told her mission with her accustomed grace and tact. Mr M— rose from his chair, opened the door of his library, and led from an inner room a handsome boy, who, accustomed to resist, would have run back, and even now drew his curly locks against his large speaking eyes, and strove to shut out the sight of her who stood before him as an angel of compassion.