I believe my father had every hope, from my innocence of character, that my séjour at Cape Town would do me no harm. Lady Amabel was, as he knew, one of the most amiable of human beings; it was you who remarked that my father is one who has “made the most of human experiences, but is unlearned in those of society;” thus, he had been accustomed to see me associated with those young men who visited at our house whenever a commando brought them near Annerley; but society gathered within the home circle is widely different from that of a gay official residence, especially where the host is a man of the world, and the hostess facile, attractive, and unused to exercise her judgment.
My father returned home, and I was left especially under Lady Amabel’s care. I spent my mornings with her. At luncheon the arrangements were made for riding or driving in the afternoon.
Clarence Fairfax trained a beautiful Arab of Sir Adrian’s for me; it was he who taught me to ride!
You have been at Cape Town. Do you recollect that dusty road to Newlands, and the delicious change from that space to those long avenues,—those shady aisles?
It seems but yesterday that Clarence and I were sauntering there—he with his hand upon my rein, laughing at my conscious dread of Lady Amabel’s displeasure at our lingering, while the General and herself were far ahead, fading in the vista.
We spent the summer months at Newlands. Do you remember one of those shaded paths between the quince and pomegranate hedges? the tall mountain rising like a giant between the sun and this quiet retreat. Here Lady Amabel and I used to bring our work, and sketch-books; and here Sir Adrian protested he always found Fairfax half an hour after the horses were ordered for the business visit to the town. The General complained that his aide-de-camp was more idle than ever; and Lady Amabel would shake her head at me, and then at Clarence, with a gentle smile of deprecation at us all.
She had set her heart upon marrying me to Clarence Fairfax. She did not tell me so, but I discovered it, albeit her tact veiled her intentions from all but one besides myself. This was not Clarence; it was Mrs Rashleigh.
The moment Lady Amabel had formed this “pretty plus,” as she afterwards called it, she did just what a woman of refined mind would do. She took care, lest the world should sully my fair name with the breath of scandal. Had she been a manoeuvrer, she could not have done more to draw Clarence nearer to me. She kept me more by her side than she had done; she drew back when we sauntered in the ride; she made excuses to separate us if we sat too long together; and, in short, often disturbed Clarence’s equanimity. He was of a passionate temper, though not rough in disposition; but I had never seen his disposition tried in essentials. I had yet to discover in him the foundation of selfishness—vanity. Ah! why am I anticipating? Major Frankfort, I did not anticipate or reason, while writing the first pages of the journal to which I have to refer in addressing this hurried scrawl to you.
Not far from the house at Newlands is a beautiful grove. You approach it by a labyrinth of lemon glades and silver trees—you remember those silver trees, always whispering on the scented air that pervades those Arcadian woods. The grove crowns a natural mound within a miniature forest, a clear stream ripples below, and falls musically over the rocks, making a natural cascade. In the hottest days of December a soft breeze murmurs through this grove, and stirs this shining stream. Lady Amabel would retire here with me in the blazing hours of noon, and Clarence would follow us, with servants bearing baskets of fruit and the light wines of Constantia.