Ward
Jasper Lyle
There was silence. It was so profound, that we could distinguish the plash of the oars. The flag-lieutenant descended the gangway to meet the commander of the sloop, and attending him to the deck, presented him to Admiral D. After the usual compliments had passed, Captain Leslie requested to be introduced at once to the Governor, for whom he had brought important despatches.
Mrs Rashleigh came up at once to Clarence Fairfax; but looking at me, observed abruptly, “We must bid adieu to balls and fêtes immediately. The Governor and his suite will have to start for the frontier without delay. You will be charmed, I am sure, to take the field again, Major Fairfax,”—here she addressed herself to him;—“for you must be tired of lounging at pianos and superintending embroidery. Don’t faint, Miss Daveney; you are as white as death, I vow. He will come back again; aides-de-camp never get shot, especially in Kafirland.”
It is a fearful thing for a young heart to feel the germ of dislike springing in its depths; and, alas! I began to hate this woman.
Clarence looked round for some one to whose care he could commit me. “I must go,” he said, “to my uncle at once.” I instinctively moved away with him. We left Mrs Rashleigh standing alone. Every one was crowding towards the poop to hear the news. Lady Amabel had fainted.
The next few hours are vaguely sketched upon the tablets of my mind—day was dawning, as we descended the carpeted steps of the gangway to depart for the shore. I tottered into the barge, Clarence Fairfax supported me in his arms, and Lady Amabel was reclining on a seat, with Sir Adrian attempting to comfort her. Mrs Rashleigh was waiting for the Admiral’s cutter to convey her to land. I could not reconcile her levity with the idea of her regard for Clarence. She was on the last step of the gangway, and leaning down, she looked under the canopy of the barge: “Pray, tell Lady Amabel,” said she to me, with a mocking smile, “that she must not alarm herself; it will be quite a question of words on the frontier, and we shall soon return. I have made up my mind to accompany Mr Rashleigh, who goes with the Governor. We shall have a charming party; good night.”
Clarence muttered something between his teeth. I laid my head on his shoulder, and sobbed bitterly. I forgot Lady Amabel and Sir Adrian; indeed they were intent on their own regrets and responsibilities. Clarence pressed me to his heart, and parting the curls from my brow, kissed me for the first and last time.
Oh! that stir in the household in the early morning the dread preparation for war—weapons lying on the gilded tables; holsters flung across the banisters; servants hurrying hither and thither with saddlery and accoutrements; the impatient chargers pawing in the stable-yard, as if they steady “snuffed the battle afar off;” orderlies dashing to the open doorways on foaming horses; and impatient voices issuing commands to the startled underlings!
I rose early and went below; my heart sickened at these evidences of immediate departure. I returned to my sleeping apartment. It loosed into the beautiful view of the approach to the house from my dressing-room. I could hear the clatter of horses’ feet in the stables, and grooms and soldiers laughing, enjoying the prospect of the journey, and perhaps war. It was early day. How lovely is nature at her reveille in this soft climate! She was waking in the garden to the matin songs of birds; she was lifting her veil on the mountain-top, and unfurling her crimson banner in the sky to herald the coming of the sun.
But with me all was gloom. That Clarence Fairfax loved me, in his impetuous way, I believed,—alas! I did not know; but the future was a dark abyss. He was going—going into danger. All the horrible histories I had been told of death at savage hands rose before me. The hour or two passed in sleep during the night had been haunted with bloody spectres. I saw that brow stained with gore, those eyes which had beamed on me with merry light closed for ever. Gracious heaven! I had dreamt of torture, agony, and shame, with my beloved Clarence in the foreground of the picture.
Up and down, up and down those two rooms I paced, shivering on that sunny morning with dread, dismay, and doubt. Tears came—they poured in torrents over my face. I caught sight of it in the large mirror—it was pitiable to behold. I wept the more at the sight of my miserable and altered countenance. How sad is self-pity! It is so long since I have recalled these wretched moments of existence, that I can dwell upon them now more as a vividly-remembered dream than as actual facts. I give you, dear friend, more details than you may like to have, but I think you have a right to watch the phases through which my mind passed under the influence of that absorbing earthly passion.
Yes, it was a mere earthly passion; but many wiser than I have been bewildered and enchained by exceeding beauty, a dazzling smile, a winning manner, a perfect form, and a reputation distinguished among men for gallant and generous actions—generous, you know, in the worldly acceptation of the term.
Besides, while with me, Clarence was wholly mine; if I might judge by manner, hanging over my embroidery frame while Lady Amabel was writing; or—
Ah! I have said enough of this. He was to leave me now. Would he die? Would he return? or, if he did, would he return true to me, and tell me that he loved me?
You see, under all this strong current of love for him, there were doubts. I hardly recognised them; but they existed nevertheless. I had heard him laugh at “love-stricken damsels,” left by men who had been publicly engaged to them. I recollected his boasting, of giving advice to a young officer, who had gone “a great deal too far,” to get sick leave, and sail for England by the first ship. The young man did not take this advice; he stayed, married, and Clarence called him “a fool.”—Yes, these doubts rose to the surface of my mind, and then—
I heard his voice in the front of the house. I lifted the blind of the dressing-room window, and saw him: he looked harassed, he had been up all night. He was on horseback, and fully accoutred. Oh! was he departing? I dropped the blind; next I heard the rattle of spurs and sword; he had dismounted.
I wiped the tears from my eyes, and ran down to the garden by a back staircase. Clarence had some deer there in a little paddock. I walked mechanically along a grape-walk to the inclosure: the pretty things knew me, for I visited them every day; they put their faces through the railings, and licked my hands. Nelly—he had named one after me—trotted up and down impatiently; she was watching for her master. I suppose he thought that I should be with his favourites; for, ere long, he came through the grape-walk. I hastened to meet him—for agitation and distress overcame my reserve—and we walked up and down the arcade together.
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.
