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.