Part 41 (1/2)

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, pa.s.sed to the female line, and, at the age of five-and-twenty, John Lyle found himself, by an unlooked-for concurrence of circ.u.mstances, 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 a.s.sociate, our hearts are strangely stirred at sight of one with whom we have been in communion under circ.u.mstances 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 circ.u.mstance widened the gulf.

Later, at the age of eight-and-twenty, Manvers became a.s.sociated 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 t.i.tle 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.