Arthur Conway: or, Scenes in the Tropics

Preface

. The foUowing Work is given to the world under melancholy circumstances. The Author, who appeared to have commenced a promising literary career, by the production of " The Way side Cross," in Mr. Murray's Colonial Library, was taken from the world suddenly by a fatal accident on December 21st, 1850. In " Arthur Conway," which, at the time of his death, was in the publisher's hands, he had embodied the recoUections of scenery and cha racter in our tropical colonies, laid up by an accurate memory during a year's residence with his regiment in Dominica and other of the West Indian Islands. His companions have

PREFACE.

. vouched for the truthfulness of the descriptions which he has given us, and as his former work was esteemed by the best judges a faithful and lively portraiture of Andalusia and Spanish life, it is thought that the present Book wiU give an equaUy exact and vivid picture of LUe in the Tropics, so much less known and so little understood in Europe. It does not become his relations to express their private feelings, and the blank produced in their cncle by his loss. The pubbe, however, wiU forgive them for this brief notice, as the Author had desned that the accuracy and truth fulness of his representations, might render his works of fiction in some measure useful as weU as amusing. MAY, 1851.

Chapter I

Round a table, in a web-furnished room of one of the most fashionable of the Oxford Colleges, sat a party of seven or eight young men, who caUed themselves " The Knights of the Round Table." The cloth had been re moved, and the wine was circulating freely. It was the fashion in those days to drink deep. Merriment and hilarity seemed the order of the evening ; though outside a terrible storm was raging. The wind swept in furious gusts down the VOL. I. B High Street, and howled around the buildings mournfully. The rain came down furiously, beating against the windows as if it would drive them in. Although the candles shone brightly, and the fire played cheerdy, the gleam of the lightning-flashes flickered before the eyes of the assembled guests, and every now and then the cracking thunder proclaimed with its awful voice the war of the elements.

A winter storm is always doubly fearful. But what cared they? At the head of the table sat the giver of the feast, a handsome young man, with blue eyes, and curling, light-brown han. He alone of aU the party seemed affected by the storm. He was dressed in mourning, and, although he did the honours of the table courteously, and kept the bottle circulating freely, his manner was nervous and distracted. His figure was slight, but not in the least boyish ; he looked, however, younger than he was, for that day he had come of age. " Let us drink the health of King Arthur, with three times three !" said one, rising and fiUing a bumper. " The best rider, the best oar, and the best scholar of his year at Christ church, and now the owner of Morley Hall, a palace in the MaU, and other lands and mes suages unknown.

Hip ! hip ! huzza !" " King ! who would not be such a king ? No Commons to depose him, — no ' off with his head !' " " Talking of Commons puts me in mind that Lord Powis wants to enclose part of Ackshaw Heath, but the Commons won't let him." " That would be a levelling principle, and wTould bring peer and peasant to an equality." " How so ?" " Don't you see ? In former days the Com mons fought for the Barons, but now the Barons fight for the Commons ; for the common is a barren which the Baron wishes to enclose in his own pale ; once within the same pale, they must be equal." B "Ha! ha!" "You wiU keep the hounds on, I hope, Arthur, and the stud at Newmarket?" said a rising sportsman. " What ails your kingly Grace ?" said one, who was always quoting and misquoting Shakspeare. " You looked just now as if you would rather ' talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, than caper nimbly in a lady's chamber. 'Tis a rough night, my liege ; but what of that ?

Throw sorrow to the dogs ! Care killed the cat ! If you don't drink, you'U dwindle, peak and pine. The bottles are aU out. What ho ! more wine !' " " ' I go, and it is done, — the beU invites me !' " replied Arthur, in the same vein, shaking off his apathy for the moment ; but it was only for the moment, for as soon as the wine was brought, he relapsed into his sdent, abstracted mood. He fiUed his glass mechanicaUy, and drank the contents off; but it tasted to him like wormwood. " Fib your glasses, and no heeltaps ! Here's the health of the future Queen of Morley, who ever she may be, and I can only hope that she will be chaster that Guiever !" " Arthur is in love already, — only look at him !" " Yes, with ten thousand a-year." " I'll bet you a guinea he is. Come, Arthur, confess it." " By Jove ! what a flush !"

It was now observed by more than one that their host was deadly pale. They were a merry, but not dissipated set, and the wine that they had drunk was just sufficient to quicken their feelings and apprehensions. They whispered together, and one of them, rising, said, kindly : "This is no night for reveby, Arthur. You look iU, and had better go to bed. Give us a cup of coffee, and we wdl go." " You are very considerate, my dear fellows," repUed Conway. " I do indeed feel strangely Ul. I think it is the thunder that affects me. But it would be the height of inhospitality to turn you out on such a night as this !" " Not a bit of it. We wdl adjourn for the nonce, and have it out another time. Sport your oak, and go to bed." They were gone. StiU the wind howled, the rain beat, and the storm rattled, and Arthur Conway remained seated where he was, with his head drooping over the table, and resting on his hands, with which he formed a shade over his eyes from the sickly glare of the candles, and the dazzle of the lightning ; but close to his face, lying on the table, was the miniature of a bright-eyed girl.

The upper part of her face was beautbul, and singularly soft, but about the mouth and curbng upper lip there was an expression of pride, and even harshness, so faithfuUy portrayed, that it marred the otherwise lovely picture in any eyes but his. " Why art thou cast down, oh, my soul ? and why art thou so disquieted in me ?" murmured the young man, using the words of the Psalmist, so pecubarly adapted to his frame of mind at that moment. " How can I account for this fearful despondency ? Is it your image, sweet Edith, that causes it ? Oh ! how I love thee ! But is that love returned ? Why do I doubt ? Fool that I was, not to make sure of her when I was plain Arthur Conway, with a few thousands. Then I had no doubt of her sincerity ; but now, might not men say, even if she consented to become mine, that she loved not Arthur Conway, but the owner of Morley.

Oh, these doubts ! how they unmake a man ! But will this account for the miserable depression I now feel ? It ought not, for I stiU hope. Is it not, rather, some harbinger of evil dimly foreshadowing itself on my mind, sent by heaven, lest I should become too elated with my prosperity? Whatever it is, I am very miserable !" A tear dropped on the miniature, and he stooped to kiss it away ; but, before he could do it, a flash passed between his face and Edith's. He paused, then came the crash of the thunder clap, close — so close that it made the glasses ring again, and the whole budding seemed to quiver from the shock. "What!" cried he, starting up. "Do the verv elements warn me against thee ! — does the lightning interfere, and the thunder say thou shalt not be mine ! What nonsense I am talking !" murmured' poor Arthur, as he sank down again into his chair.

" Surely my brain must be a little disordered to-night, or has the wine had an unusual effect upon me? I'll go to bed, and try and sleep it off. Dear Edith ! did I think ill of thee ? — forgive me !" The young man quietly extinguished the candles, and retired to rest ; and, as his senses became calmer, the storm graduaUy died away ; and, when he fell asleep, the stars peeped out in the deep purple sky. Sir WiUiam DevereU, the late owner of Morley Hall, was a very eccentric character. Possessed of enormous wealth, he squandered much of it away, not on himself, but on his dependents, who feathered their nests comfortably at his expense — for he never looked into his accounts. He kept a pack of fox-hounds, but never hunted ; he had a stud of running horses at Newmarket, which he never saw, and which of course rarely won ; a house in London, which he kept up, but never used, excepting on one memorable occasion, when he slept in it ; a train of sleek men-servants, grooms, and hangers-on, who did what they pleased, which was very bttle, and a French cook, who did stdl less, for, to Sb WiUiam, a chop and a glass of cider was a feast.

Consistent in inconsistencies, he was a professed Republican, but a bitter aristocrat ; a phdanthropist, but he contrived to quarrel with most of his neighbours. He de claimed against women, but it was whispered that this was because he had been rejected by more than one, and that he was very fond of the fair sex. He raved against Popery, and upheld Protestantism, but had never been known to enter a church. He was a devoted admirer of Lord George Gordon, and it was said that he had assisted that eccentric nobleman with large sums of money, though he would not throw a sixpence to a starring wretch. The only night he had slept in his house in the Mall — perhaps to disarm suspicion — was that on which Newgate was burned down. No one could guess who would succeed to his enormous wealth and estates, which were not entailed.

The immediate heir, or, rather, next of kin, was Sir Walter Conway, the head of that family, and uncle to the young Oxonian whom we have already introduced to our readers ; but it was supposed that he had on several occasions offended Sir William by his votes in Parliament. Sir WiUiam DevereU died suddenly, whdst enjoying his favourite pursuit of fishing ; but his age already had exceeded that aUotted to man. Great was the excitement on opening his wdl, which was found on a scrap of dirty paper in his fishing-case, though duly signed, sealed, and witnessed ; and great was the astonishment of all, and the consternation of many who had reckoned on being noticed in the wdl, when it was found that he had left the whole of his estates, real and personal, to his second cousin, Arthur Conway, and to his heirs for ever.

It was dated on the 5 th of November, 1772 ; just twenty-two years before the opening of this tale. There was but one mode of accounting for this unexpected disposal of his vast property, which was, that Mr. Conway had once said, in conversation with Sir WiUiam DevereU, " that he thought, as long as the Roman Catholic religion should hold its ground, so long would there be despotism in Europe." The wdl was very short. " I leave and bequeath the whole of my estates, real and personal, to my second cousin, Arthur Wilbam Conway, and to his heirs, male, for ever, provided he does not marry a Roman Catholic woman. " Signed, " William Deverell, " Witnessed by " John Anguish, apothecary, " Tom EUam, gamekeeper." Mr. Conway had now been dead several years, but the will had never been revoked or altered, and young Arthur de la Motte Conway was astonished and delighted one day at re ceiving from his attorney, a letter enclosing a copy of the will, and requesting his presence at Morley Hall to attend the funeral.

Arthur hated funerals and would not go, but left everything to his attorney. Sir Walter Conway was the owner of a family estate in the same county, and not very far from Morley HaU. He had been wdd and dissipated in his youth, and had raised large sums at an exorbitant rate of interest from those harpies who are always ready to pounce upon any young man of certain property. He was, in consequence, in after bfe, much embar rassed, and every acre of the Grange, as his estate was caUed, was mortgaged to its fuU extent. He had made an improvident marriage. Lady Conway was an aristocratic beauty of the order insipid, genus doU, yet she had been a standing toast at the clubs. A smile from her rosy lips had been to more than one unso phisticated youth, as an emanation from a superior being, and to catch a favouring glance from her soft blue eye, was to encounter a ray from Paradise too dazzling for the heart to sustain without a wound.

To the surprise of aU, the dashing, hard-drinking, hard-riding Baronet wooed and won her. Her sole taste was in dress and equipage, and a coach with four-in-hand was to her a sine qua non. As her parents who, though noble, were poor, could not afford to keep one for her use, she could not refuse an offer from one apparently rich, certainly handsome, and in her own set. She soon helped him in wasting his estate, and infatuated as he was with her beauty, it was not long before he discovered that there was nothing beneath the surface but extravagance and frivolity, and bitterly did he repent his choice. Although extremely selfish, Sb Walter was by no means a harsh man by nature, but finding that his favourite pursuits of hunting and racing would be incompatible with his wife's extravagant habits, he began to accuse her of them, and threatened to reduce her establishment.

She, in turn, recriminated, and neither would give in. But before long, his hounds and horses and her coach and four were sold to appease some of the most pressing creditors, and they lived very unhappdy to gether. Two daughters were the issue of this id assorted marriage. The eldest, Edith, now about twenty-one years of age, strongly re sembled both her parents in feature and character. Her auburn hair and blue eyes were her mother's, but the latter sparkled with brighter lustre ; her slightly aquiline nose and determined haughty but ruby-lipped mouth were her father's. Like the one, she was extremely fond of dress, and usuaUy indolent ; but, on the other hand, she could shake it off when she chose to please and become lively and agreeable. She was a bold, graceful, and fearless horsewoman, and delighted to display her fine figure in her wen-fitting riding-habit and plumed hat in the hunting-field, to the intense admiration of the neighbouring squires.

She took long rides, and flirted with her young cousin Arthur whenever he spent the vacations, which he usuaUy did, at the Grange, and as Sir Walter and his brother had always been on good terms — for there had as yet been no cause of rivalry or jealousy between them — Mrs. Conway, who was an invalid, and required warm country air, was always welcome, and was generally asked to meet her son at the Grange. She, poor thing, could not see the danger her son was incurring from his constant, unwatched intercourse with his handsome cousin. The mother's warning might have interposed before it was yet too late, but it was never spoken, and Arthur, who had passed the last long vacation basking in the smdes of the lovely Edith, had returned to Oxford, hopelessly and irremediably in love. Her father either did not, or would not notice this familiar intercourse, or, perhaps, he thought it but natural between two cousins, and her mother was too wrapt up in self, — too much engaged w-ith keeping her declining beauty alive to perceive it at aU ; so no one interfered.

Yet there were two persons at the Grange who not only saw that poor Arthur was head and ears in love with his dangerous cousin, but felt for him deeply in theb different ways. Louisa, who had just emerged from the chrysabs state of the girl to that of the woman, resplendent in beauty and purity, was like her mother in face and figure, but, oh, how different in her mind ! Exquisitely soft and feminine in her person, her intellect was strong and vigorous. She had been neglected and put aside — eclipsed — by her more showy and dashing sister ; but as if she thrived best in the shade, she grew from the retiring, awkward child, into the fascinating, inteUectual woman. There was another thing, too, that seemed, as it were, to separate her from the rest of her family, which was, that she was deeply imbued with a true feeling of religion.

The rest might profess it outwardly, but she alone had that sincere and inward yearning of the heart which, searching after the truth, finds it through faith, and keeps it with holy fervour to the end, which is eternal happiness. Louisa had early discovered the growing attachment of the poor boy to his cousin, and VOL. I. C pitied him sincerely ; for she knew, although Edith had never made her a confidant, that the love was not reciprocal, and that her sister regarded it as a mere boyish caprice — a whim of a season, which the first contact with the world would remove. Once — and once only — had she ventured to remonstrate with Edith on the subject, but she had met with such a rebuff, that she felt it was useless to say more. Her sister had said : " How do you know that I do not love Arthur ?

Neither my father nor mother object to our seeing so much of each other, then why should you ? Your interference would make me suppose, if you were not so young, that you were already jealous that his attentions are not more equaUy divided." Upon this, Louisa had blushed deeply, and burst into tears. Edith kissed her, and seemed very unhappy at having disturbed her ; but a reeoncdiation was soon effected, and the cousins took a long ride that evening together. The second person who had watched poor Arthur's love from its first budding, was Edith's own maid, the daughter of a respectable tenant on the DevereU estate, a black-eyed, black habed, lively Devonshire lass. Pretty Dinah Derrick had her admirers too, and it was cur rently believed that she was engaged to a young man, weU to do in the world, who had already risen from the humble post of cabin-boy, to be master of a large vessel, that traded from Plymouth — which was not very remote from Morley — to the West Indies.

She it was who placed on her mistress' todet-table the fresh flowers, gathered in the morning before the dew was off, by the love-sick Oxonian. Through her were sent those pretty messages and in quiries which mark devoted attention, and to which she received the replies. By these she was able, in some degree, to judge of the feelings on both sides. This constant going between had its effect. c She saw plainly that poor Arthur's love was hopeless, and she pitied him, and, at the same time, thought that her mistress was wanting in discrimination not to love such a handsome, fascinating young man. To her, he appeared a superior being, so unlike the rough, unpolished squires, so unlike her own coarse-spoken lover. His skin was so smooth, his hands so small and white, and he spoke so softly ; and then he was so good-looking, and sat his horse like a prince.

Poor Dinah ! During the summer, the whole party above mentioned, with the exception of Mr. Conway, who, as has already been stated, had been dead some years, were assembled at the Grange. Although Sir Walter Conway did not quite agree in politics with the owner of Morley, nor, indeed, in anything else, yet he was very fond of the place, for he was passionately addicted to sporting. The hounds, the stud, the splendid covers, the leaping trout-stream, formed an irresistible nucleus of attraction to the sporting Baronet ; and as their proper owner never inter fered in their management, his servants, no doubt regarding Sir Walter as his successor, were always anxious to please him ; and horses, hounds, huntsmen, and keepers, were aU at his command, as if he had been reaUy their master. A vague hope inspired him at times that he should one day become so, although he felt that the eccentric character of Sir Wdliam rendered that hope very uncertain ; yet he was so accustomed to Morley, that it seemed to him almost impossible that it should pass into other hands than his.

Young Arthur, too, was an especial favourite witb the keepers, particularly with old Tom EUam, the head of that establishment, and his son Tom, the younger. He rode weU, shot weU, and could throw a fly — then an art known to few, — vvas prodigal of his person, and liberal with his purse, and, above aU things, always spoke civilly and kindly to them. But old Sir WiUiam took very little notice of him, and always treated him as a mere boy. Tom EUam shook his head knowingly at this, when it was done in his presence, and would wink, and chuckle, and smile, as if he knew aU about it. He had initiated Arthur into the mysteries of trout-fishing, and this summer he was dreadfuUy vexed when the Mayfly was run ning, and the stream alive with fish, to find his young master, as he called him, when he came over to Morley, always riding or walking with his cousin Edith, unconscious of the fact that the old keeper was watching him anxiously, and with much disapprobation.

Thus briefly have we endeavoured to sketch the position of the Conway famdy, a short time previous to the death of the eccentric Sir WiUiam DevereU. That event created much heart-burning, much misery, crime, sorrow, and repentance, when his wiU, like Pandora's box, was opened, and spread them around. But before we enter into the career of crime, it is necessary to relate the history of Arthur's parents, which was singularly romantic.

Chapter II

In the summer of the year 177 — , a great sensation was created amongst certain circles in Paris, by the elopement or sudden disap pearance of a young lady of noble family. Many rumours of course arose, and many stories were soon in circulation, some with and some without foundation. Some said that her body lay at the Morgue, but that her famdy was ashamed to own it ; others, that she had run away with a young officer of thc Garde Royale, who had disappeared about the same time ; and again, that she had been forcibly abducted, and then murdered, by a certain fashionable Marquis, whom her family had desired for her husband, but to whom it was known the young lady herself had an un conquerable aversion. It was even hinted that the King himseU had some hand in her sudden and mysterious disappearance; but few, very few, knew the real cause of her flight, or any thing of her subsequent history.

We are, how ever, able to give nearly the whole of it, by collating and arranging the events of her life, which are scattered somewhat confusedly over the original manuscript, as her son became acquainted with them. Eugenie de la Motte, nobly born, and highly connected, might have formed an alliance with the greatest in the land, had she not been of a singularly unambitious and reserved disposition. She mixed very little in the gaieties of the gayest city in the world, and this was generaUy attributed to shyness, to awkwardness, to anything but the truth. She liked them not ; she saw the hollowness, the frivolity and bcentious ness of the society in which she must have moved, had she quitted her retirement. But her own words will show more clearly the motives of her conduct. A letter is extant, written in a smaU female hand, in the French language, and signed Eugenie, which no doubt is a copy of one left behind her for the purpose of explaining why she left her parents, her home, her country, to follow the fortunes of one whom she loved sufficiently to forget in his arms what she had lost.

That she loved him we can scarcely doubt, but that she did not mourn his melancholy fate long, subsequent events proved. The foUowing is an extract from the letter : " I fly from persecution. May the great God grant me mercy and forgiveness if I am doing wrong ; but from you I ask neither. You gave me the alternative of wedding the Marquis de CharoUes — a roue and a gambler — ■ or entering a convent ; you cannot plead igno rance that the first was loathsome to me. Now learn, if you are not already aware of it, that the alternative you proposed would be even more hateful ; for in one case, it would be but the gradual destruction of the body ; but in the other, there would be a moral, an everlasting death, an infamy. I am not of your religion, and I wdl not lead a living death. My mother was a Huguenot, and I am one.

O father, father ! you know it, and yet you can sacrifice your daughter before the shrine of the monster riches, or force her to lead a death in life. Dreamedst thou that I had eyes, and could not see ? There is a Book forbidden to us by per secution, that clears the understanding. I read it, but thou dost not ; this then is the secret. ' Saul ! Saul ! why persecutest thou me ?' Nay, father, it was thy pernicious doctrines, and thy evil counsellors, who wrought upon thee to persecute thy poor child. Forgive thy Eugenie ; but no, no, they will not allow thee even that consolation, thou wdt curse her to thy dying day. I know them, I fear them, and I have fled. They wiU seek me, but they shall not find me. There is one even mightier than they, and He wiU comfort the afflicted, not between the dreary waUs of the hving sepul chre, but in the glorious and open face of beaming nature, where the knee can bow, and the heart lift up its voice in adoration, not to painted images, but to Him who sits upon the throne.

Why didst thou press me, O my father, thus crueUy? When I knelt at thy feet, and told thee the workings of my heart ; when I wept and prayed, and told thee that I could not love the dark, fearful man, with the glittering black eyes ; why, oh, why didst thou spurn me from thee ? ' This man or a convent!' The words scorched me. 'Thou shalt wed him or Jesus !' Oh, horrible, im pious blasphemy ! Am I thy daughter ? My eyes are dry, I cannot weep ! no tear wiU drop to blot this page ; behold, I am calm. God has given the weak one strength — the strength of the martyr. Yet, think not that I seek death. That were a triumph to my persecutors. No, I fly to the world. I live, because it is a mortal sin to die before the hand of God is stretched forth to call me from the world. I may never be happy again ; but I wiU not die a moral death.

Father, fareweU. I wiU not ask you to bless me ; but oh, do not curse your daughter ! " Eugenie." There is a great incoherence and much seem ing inconsistency in this letter; and it may be observed, that there is not a hint of any earthly love beyond that of breathing freely in the world, untrammeUed by the miseries of a conventual life, or the stronger and more hateful existence of a bright being bound for hfe to one hated, scorned, and loathed. Nevertheless, the foUowing scene, which occurred about four years after the mysterious dis appearance of the fair Eugenie from Paris, will show that love had something to do with it. Mr. Conway was traveUing on horseback, with one armed attendant, through Piedmont and the south of France. One lovely summer afternoon he had quitted Nice, on his way to Marseilles, riding leisurely, and w-andering about through by-ways and bridle-roads, in search of the picturesque.