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 circumstance widened the gulf.
Later, at the age of eight-and-twenty, Manvers became associated 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 title 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.
The man Watson would have pocketed the annuity without acting further in the matter. Mrs Watson was “used to the child,” and “had a liking for him;” so she did her best to discover him, but for a long time without success. Her husband kept back part of the sum allowed, and she afterwards learned that he bribed some infamous people to keep young Jasper out of the way of his nurse, who, though without firm principles, was not bad-hearted.
Sir John soon began to hope—God forgive him!—that he should hear no more of the poor boy cast upon the troubled waters of the world. In those days there were no railways, nor electric telegraphs, nor police; sin prospered much more secretly than it does now. Even now the little church in Cornwall lies remote from populous places, for no iron road can penetrate through the rugged defiles that lead to it.
Oh! that men would consider the future, and calculate even the chances of the evils which may accumulate from the commission of one solitary sin.
We are inclined to pity the youth, who in the poor curate’s daughter found relief after the gloomy days spent at home, and surely for him whose heart was softened at the sight of the father’s anguish them were hopes of better things; but his besetting demon was pride—pride fostered by his mother. Oh mothers! do you deeply weigh your responsibilities?—do you remember that it is to your hands the virgin soil of the garden foils for culture?