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And then she learned that Vander Roey was dead.

She waited many minutes before she uttered any remark, and then she said—

“Did they take him prisoner?”

“No,” replied Madame Vanbloem; “he died of his wounds among his own people.”

“It is well!” said the widow, and, turning her face from the light, she never spoke again.

Chapter Twenty.
The General

From the head-quarters of Sir Adrian Fairfax, I most transport you, my reader, to one of the most lonely and romantic districts in Southern Africa, where Sir John Manvers, with the second division of the army, had pitched his camp. Stretching in a south-easterly direction rose the green Chumie Mountains, their verdure contrasted occasionally with bold grey columns of rock; beyond these again, the Amatolas blended their purple heights with the roseate clouds; northward, the Winterberg range formed a barrier between the colony and Tambookieland, where dwelt the “royal race” of the Kafirs, and, towering to the sky like a gigantic elephant, with a howdah on its back, the Great Winterberg, nine thousand feet high, lifted its lofty head, crowned with a diadem of snow.

On a fair green plain, the clear stream of the Kat running through the midst, were ranged with beautiful precision the white tents of the little army, which had been at first employed against the Kafir warriors, and afterwards held in reserve, lest the Dutch should rally in their strongholds. But Vander Roey’s fate had been the death-blow to all further opposition for the present, and the troops were only waiting Sir Adrian’s return from the Orange River to disperse, provided the aspect of affairs was peaceful.

It promised to be so, for the Kafirs were considerably dismayed at the news of the severe loss the Boers had suffered, in spite of their unerring roers and strong position, and now promised submission with the meekness of the dove and the wiliness of the serpent!

Sir Adrian’s detention arose from delay in diplomatic measures. Several prisoners were yet to be disposed of. The principal traitor, Lyle, still eluded discovery, but a price was set upon his head.

On the outskirts of this encampment, just where the bright waters of the Kat River and the Mancazana meet, were scattered over a few acres of ground some temporary dwellings. Simple and rudely fashioned as they were, these thatched tenements looked exceedingly picturesque among the natural groves overshadowing them. The walls were white-washed, the little windows neatly glazed, and the verandahed fronts were gracefully wreathed with the wild creepers that grew about in profusion.

These dwellings, albeit not quite proof against the storms that often sweep in terrific grandeur through this lovely region, were comparatively luxurious, contrasted with the poor shelter of the tent or marquee, and one, divided far apart from the rest by a banquette of earth, would have made apparently a sufficiently pleasant summer dwelling in England.

Mr Daveney finding it impracticable to reach the lower districts in safety, and earnestly requested by Sir Adrian Fairfax to accept an appointment of trust and responsibility, if only for a time, had taken up his abode here. The whole fabric had been run up within six weeks, despite untoward weather; a few days of sunshine made the little habitation of wattle, clay, thatch, and whitewash fit for the reception of his family. The ladies occupied one bed-room, a small office served the Commissioner—for such was Mr Daveney’s new appointment—for a reception and sleeping apartment. The common sitting-room opened as usual from the verandah, and the simple cookery was carried on by the old Malay in the hollow of a tall rock, backing the premises. A couple of tents added materially to the accommodation and comfort of the tenement.

The intense anxiety of Eleanor’s mind had produced a low fever, which kept the unfortunate young creature on her couch—wasted to a shadow, she lay beneath a little casement, her only rest snatches of fitful sleep, her only enjoyment the fresh air, that brought sweet odours with it from the heath-clad hills. Her mother and sister watched day and night by turns beside her. The Trails were again their neighbours, and were a great solace to the afflicted invalid.

“It is a sad strait for one so young to come to,” said Eleanor to Mr Trail one day, “to wish to die.”

“Sad, indeed,” replied the good missionary; “sad, because so sinful.”

“Ah, me!” said the sufferer, “this suspense is killing me—is it not natural that I should long to be where the tears will be wiped from off all faces?”

“Patience, Eleanor, patience,” whispered Mr Trail. “God has His own means of bestowing happiness; you have been sorely tried, my poor child; but you are young, a long future may lie before you.”

And the invalid lifted up her large luminous eyes to Heaven with the most hopeless expression of despair.

Hark! horses are galloping past the dwelling—the rattle of accoutrements announces that soldiers are on their way. They soon go by; there are but few—it must be an express.

And the question passes along the tented line, “Is Lee taken?”

“Not yet; but the dispatches from Sir Adrian relate that a clue is obtained to his discovery.”

In a word, Hermanus the stutterer, who, rebel as he was, hated English traitors, succeeded in persuading his comrades that Lee and Brennard had never had any view but self-aggrandisement. It was therefore resolved in council to purchase their own pardon by delivering up the trader and the convict. Poor Gray had been carried off with the wounded to the hospital tent, and found to be seriously, though not mortally, hurt. He had not an enemy among the Boers; but it was proved that he had consented to serve a gun, and despite the decided step he had taken to avoid firing upon his countrymen, there was no evidence to show whether the act was the result of panic, or repentance.

He was, however, not to be condemned without a further hearing, when more evidence could be collected, and was sent to Sir John Manvers’s division, with other convalescents, after the action.

Perfectly passive and resigned to his impending fate, the young deserter met with compassion and solace at the kind hands of Mr Trail, who obtained permission to lodge him in his own little dwelling. Gray was, however, ironed whenever he passed the threshold; but, in spite of his bonds, the poor lad confessed himself happier than he had been for years.

Marion and Ormsby were, as in happier times, sitting, side by side, under the willows that bent over the rushing waters of the two rivers. They were not many paces from the house, and hearing the tramp of horses’ feet, hastened to learn the news brought by the express.

As they passed Mr Trail’s cottage, they saw Gray walking up and down, as he was permitted to do at certain hours of the day, between two sentries.

Marion shuddered at sight of the manacled limbs of this slight, handsome, and frank-hearted looking youth. He had been the associate of Lyle! She was turning from him with a feeling of dislike, when his poor attempt to salute her with his fettered hands disarmed the sentiment and filled her heart with pity.

She passed on with her lover, and on entering the house, they learned from Mrs Daveney that the express had brought private letters from Sir Adrian to Sir John Manvers and Mr Daveney.

The latter was at this moment sent for by the General commanding the division.

Sir John Manvers’s marquee stood in the centre of the “canvas city,” distinguished from all similar habitations by its superior size and the greater space of ground allotted to it. The marquee was closed, two sentinels were pacing silently up and down before it; the still aspect of the domicile strongly contrasted with the life and stir of the encampment, which, as usual in hours of peace, presented an agreeable and busy scene.

The afternoon sun shone brightly on the gleaming waters of the winding river, groups of soldiers dotted its banks, some sitting, talking quietly together, some wrestling, some running, some cutting wood to replenish the cooking fires. Among these were intermingled the dusky forms of of Kafir men and women, the latter with long bundles of sticks, accurately poised on their heads, which they had brought to exchange for tobacco, or money where it could be got. Intermingled with these scattered and motley groups might be seen the tall, manly form of the young English settler, the diminutive shape of the lithe-limbed Hottentot, the swarthy Griqua, and the grave Dutch colonist, and collected in knots, or waiting apart in twos and threes, in grave communion, were the officers of the division.

I have spoken of this division as a little army; in truth, it might so be called, for on either side, parted from the encampment by a little wilderness of mimosas, were the lagers and bivouacs of the native levies, in all amounting with the regular troops to 3,000 men, who were waiting the decision of Sir Adrian Fairfax to be disbanded.

Daveney walked through the encampment, neither looking to the right nor the left, but not unobserved by the officers, who, heartily tired of the inactivity without the excitement of the field, were longing to return to quarters, and anxiously looked for news of all descriptions.

The General, Sir John Manvers, was not popular with those he commanded. Cold, abstracted, haughty, self-opinionated, he was a striking evidence of that mischievous system of interest, which, like a destructive insect in a noble structure, injures and often destroys the whole.

Sir John had been appointed commander of the forces in Southern Africa and temporary governor, not because he had served his country, not because his judgment, his experience, his temper, or his principles fitted him for the deep responsibility he assumed, but because he was the brother-in-law of a man who had long held sway in the House of Commons, and whose silence or vote could determine a question of vital importance to certain landed proprietors of rank and power.

Sir John was provided for, and the bill was passed.

But a very short essay in the management of affairs served to prove that the General was not the diplomatist for the Cape colony, with its extraordinary mixture of tribes, its extended and complicated interests, its untried population, its vague lines of demarcation between the varied races occupying the pasture-grounds; and on the first substantial information of the prospect of a war, one member of the Ministry fortunately recollected that a former one had proved expensive, and that Sir Adrian Fairfax had been the man who succeeded in bringing it to a close. But Sir John Manvers could not be dismissed without a saving clause in the document that gave him his congé; by this clause he was offered a more agreeable and more lucrative government in a less troublesome country. With this arrangement he was perfectly satisfied.

Thus it was desirable for all parties to bring the warfare to a close; but Sir Adrian was a conscientious man, who did the duty he was paid to do, and would not hurry over proceedings involving great results.

Sir John Manvers was chafed at the delay, and angry because Sir Adrian would not take himself the office of Governor, and thus relieve the former from his duties. With a delicacy as graceful as it was politic, Sir Adrian delayed his installation as Governor till peace should be proclaimed, contenting himself with the command of the principal division of the army.

But, on hearing from Mr Daveney that Lyle was one of the principal instigators to mischief, he deeply regretted the arrangement he had made. It was, however, too late to alter his plan without compromising his character for consistency.

On looking through the list of killed appended to the humble memorial of the conquered Boers, it must be owned that a feeling of disappointment arose in the breast of the General, all humane as he was, and he could not conceal his uneasiness from his secretary, Frankfort, when he was officially informed of Lyle’s whereabouts, and of the convict’s intention to rally the Boers, and cause further trouble to the Government.

But Daveney is wending his way across the camp-ground to Sir John Manvers’s marquee.

He held in his hand a letter, which he was requested by Sir Adrian to place in Sir John’s hands, when the latter should have been duly prepared for its reception. Sir Adrian felt that the Commissioner was one of the few men in the world whom he could trust with the unthankful task.

Sir John Manvers bowed coldly on the entrance of Daveney, and pointing to an open note before him, said, in a tone of vexation, “That note is from Sir Adrian Fairfax; I confess its contents are beyond my comprehension, and I am utterly at a loss to know, sir, why my friend has thought it necessary to make you the medium of communication to me, instead of addressing me on a point which he chooses to invest with mystery.”

Sir John Manvers had been accustomed to see men bend at once to his haughty, imperious manner; but this was not the case now. Daveney bowed with due deference to the General, but the mild blue eye of our good friend expressed sincere compassion for the man, as he replied, “I grieve indeed, sir, to be made the medium of communication on a subject which will cause you not only surprise, but unmitigated pain. Sir, I must beg you to be prepared for exceedingly unwelcome intelligence.”

The last words were uttered less blandly than at first, for the proud General sat with his arms folded and wrath darkening his brow, as the Commissioner stood before him; but the latter was too kind at heart to be overcome by the arrogant bearing of one who he knew must suffer bitterly ere they parted, and checking the indignation incident on Sir John’s arrogant bearing, he said gently, “I admit that I am in your eyes, sir, unduly honoured; but Sir Adrian Fairfax is my friend as well as yours, and he has chosen that I should impart to you personally what he dreads to write.”

“Dread, sir! what do you mean? Speak out; what is there that you can tell me to make me shrink from hearing it?” and the stern man rose and stood up with an air of defiance and contempt, as his eyes gleamed from beneath his bent brows upon the kind countenance of the Commissioner. “Speak, sir!” he continued, “I command you.”

“This communication,” replied Daveney, quietly, placing Sir Adrian’s letter on the table, “is private, as you perceive; this,” laying a larger document before the General, “is official. In the last, Sir Adrian informs you, that a man of the name of Lee has been, with one or two others, the chief confederate of the rebel chief Vander Roey, has assisted the Boers in every way by facilitating the trade in gunpowder, and is now on his way to the Singpoo River, where he purposes establishing a settlement, and defying the laws of the colonial government—”

Here the Commissioner paused.

“Well, sir!” said Sir John; “and again I desire to know why this communication is not forwarded to me directly, instead of through you.”

“Sir,” replied Daveney, “I had imagined that my name was not altogether unknown to you.” A sudden flush suffused even the bald forehead of the General; but he recovered himself instantly, and coldly remarked, “I had not forgotten it, but you will excuse my saying that the reminiscence is not agreeable to me, and expressing at the same time my perplexity at your referring to private matters when employed—very strangely, it seems to me—on official business you must excuse my requesting you to speak to the purpose for which you came.”

“The real name of the offender,” replied the Commissioner, “is communicated in the private letter; he is a convict, who was supposed to have been wrecked in the Trafalgar, but who was wonderfully saved with the deserter Gray, and succeeded in reaching the Amaponda country, spent some months among Umlala’s people, encouraging them in sedition, trafficking in brandy and gunpowder, and at last made his way to Vander Roey to fan the flame of rebellion among the Dutch.”

Mr Daveney had summoned resolution to convey the above intelligence with perfect calmness, and as he spoke he clearly perceived the inward working of the heart he probed, despite the struggle against the display of outward suffering.

As he referred to the “private letter,” Sir John Manvers re-seated himself, but forbore to take up the document, although his hand was impulsively stretched out to take it. At the mention of the wreck of the Trafalgar, the handsome face of the proud General was again deeply suffused—the flush passed away, leaving a livid ring round the eyes and mouth, and when the Commissioner ceased to speak, the countenance before him, with its ashy lips and stony orbs, more resembled that of a corpse than a living being.

The stern man moved his head with the rigidity of a figure worked by springs—he waved his hand, indicating a wish to be left alone, but Daveney did not stir. Hat in hand, he still stood contemplating with an air of earnest sympathy the unfortunate Sir John Manvers—the father of Jasper Lyle—the convict—the rebel—the doomed traitor!

Several minutes elapsed, mind and body seemed equally prostrated; but Sir John’s senses had not forsaken him, he had still the capacity to suffer. His right hand lay fixed as marble on the table beside the fatal letter, the nails were blue from the stagnant blood within, his chest heaved with stifled sighs, the stony orbs grew bloodshot, the ghastly features were convulsed.

He fought manfully, desperately, against nature, and conquered. He rose, and trembling violently, Daveney was prepared to see him fall; but although he tottered, he kept his ground.

Still he could not speak. A watch ticking on the camp-table sounded like Time passing with a heavy tread; the din of the camp was but a murmur in the distance, but it seemed strangely distinct. So did the sentry’s foot on the grass. How close he was; a canvas screen only separated the suffering General from the careless happy soldier. A chorus rose clear and joyous from the banks of the river, and laughter, shrill and boisterous, pierced the air.

All these accustomed sounds now jarred harshly on the Commissioner’s ear, as before him stood the stern, cold, haughty man, suddenly assailed by trouble, his ride tottering in the dust. He, the centre of this busy crowd, had not a friend to whom he could turn for support or consolation. In the kind Daveney’s breast he might have met with sympathy, but his was a nature which resented pity. Again he bade the Commissioner depart, and the latter, regretful and anxious, retired, leaving the unhappy man to the solitude of his marquee.

The sun was setting, the camp-ground was dotted with fires, the games were over, but the laughter and the song continued as the soldiers lounged over their evening meal. The herd-boys were driving the flocks and cattle over the heathy uplands, and Marion, Ormsby, and Mr Trail stood at the rude gate of the new-made garden, watching the Commissioner’s approach from the lines.

He was so intent on what had passed between the General and himself, that he forgot to ask the usual question, “How is my darling?” but he was reminded of her by Marion telling him that her sister had fallen into a deep and quiet sleep, and that the medical attendant foretold improvement from the moisture which already bedewed her tense brow and wasted hands.

At midnight Daveney looked forth upon the hushed camp-ground. The stillness was only broken by the occasional challenge between the watchful sentinels, and but one light burnt strong and clear in the vast and tented field; it was in the General’s marquee.

Before daybreak the Commissioner, accompanied by Mr Trail, and followed by May, reconnoitred the location in which he had placed his dwelling. Perfect silence reigned throughout, but still that light shone steadily.

Oh! to have lifted the canvassed screen of that pavilion, and seen therein a strong man and a proud, pacing, pacing, to and fro, to and fro, with arms lightly folded across his chest, striving to stifle the emotions which rose and fell like a heavy tide, as his thoughts dragged him back, and forced him to look upon the wasted, the irredeemable past!

And the laughing sun came forth from his gorgeous eastern throne, and poured his beams alike upon the sleeping soldier and the waking General, and it mocked the light of the poor lamp even as the things of heaven mock all things of earth!

Both the public and the private despatch from Sir Adrian Fairfax to Sir John Manvers lay open on the camp-table.

The first simply contained the official information respecting Lee; the second was as follows:—

“My dear Sir John,—

“I have requested my good friend Daveney, the present Commissioner for the Gaika tribes, to prepare you for intelligence which it gives me unmitigated pain to write. My resolution not to accept the post of Governor till my work here was done was founded on the best principles; but I regret it now for your sake, since as you will have learned, before opening this, the man Lee, named in my official despatch, 10th May, 18—, is no other than Jasper Lyle. At present his identity is known only to the Daveneys, their immediate friends, and myself, and I see no way of your avoiding personal contact or correspondence with him, unless you resolve to throw over publicly the reins of government to me. Would to heaven, my dear friend, that this man had perished among the unfortunate passengers of the Trafalgar, or that he had fallen in the encounter with the Dutch at the stony ridges! My chief desire now is to hear that he has got clear into the upper districts; but unhappily he has made enemies among the people he affects to assist, and I am told they are determined to yield him up to me. In such a case, as a soldier, you know I have no alternative.

“In a word, my dear Sir John, my mind would be greatly relieved at hearing that either you or he had quitted the colony. Pardon language that appears uncourteous; my pen fails in expressing as it ought all that I feel, all that I am ready to do in any way in which I may serve you at this lamentable crisis.

“With great regard, and assuring you of my earnest regret at this unfortunate and unlooked-for result of the late action against the misguided Boers,

“I beg you to believe me most truly yours,

“Adrian Fairfax.”

“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.