A CROWN OF SHAME.

VOL. III.

A CROWN OF SHAME.

A NOVEL.

BY FLORENCE MARRYAT, AUTHOR OF ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY SISTER THE ACTRESS,’ ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III.

LONDON: F. V. WHITE & CO., 31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.

1888.

[All rights reserved.]

EDINBURGH COLSTON AND COMPANY PRINTERS

CONTENTS.

A CROWN OF SHAME.

POPULAR NEW NOVELS.

Now ready, in One Vol., the Seventh Edition of

ARMY SOCIETY; or, Life in a Garrison Town. By John Strange Winter. Author of ‘Bootles’ Baby.’ Cloth gilt, 6s.; also picture boards, 2s.

Also now ready, in cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. each.

GARRISON GOSSIP, Gathered in Blankhampton. By John Strange Winter. Also picture boards, 2s.

IN THE SHIRES. By Sir Randal H. Roberts, Bart.

THE OUTSIDER. By Hawley Smart.

THE GIRL IN THE BROWN HABIT. By Mrs Edward Kennard.

STRAIGHT AS A DIE. By the same Author.

BY WOMAN’S WIT. By Mrs Alexander. Author of ‘The Wooing O’t.’

KILLED IN THE OPEN. By Mrs Edward Kennard.

IN A GRASS COUNTRY. By Mrs H. Lovett-Cameron.

A DEVOUT LOVER. By the same Author.

TWILIGHT TALES. By Mrs Edward Kennard. Illustrated.

SHE CAME BETWEEN. By Mrs Alexander Fraser.

THE CRUSADE OF ‘THE EXCELSIOR.’ By Bret Harte.

A REAL GOOD THING. By Mrs Edward Kennard.

CURB AND SNAFFLE. By Sir Randal H. Roberts, Bart.

DREAM FACES. By the Hon. Mrs Fetherstonhaugh.

A SIEGE BABY. By John Strange Winter.

MONA’S CHOICE. By Mrs Alexander. Author of ‘The Wooing O’t.’

F. V. WHITE & Co., 31 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.

A CROWN OF SHAME.

CHAPTER I.

ROSA, the yellow girl, was sauntering up and down the avenue of tulip trees which formed an approach of a quarter of a mile to the plantation of Beauregard, in a very discontented and sullen humour. She was holding Maraquita’s baby in her arms, and she was dressed in her very best. Her cotton gown was of the[2] deepest rose colour; on her feet she wore white stockings and prunella shoes with sandals; her long black curls—in which she prided herself there was no trace of negro crispness—were surmounted by a handkerchief of bright orange silk, which Miss Lizzie had given her as a reward for her kindness to her little charge. But what was the good of it all? thought Rosa; what was the use of wearing her gilt earrings and her string of coral beads, when there was no one to see them—not even a coolie boy left on the plantation? For this was a general holiday. Not a hand was to work, either in the coffee or sugar fields, for it was Miss Maraquita’s wedding-day, and all the coloured people were off to the Fort Church to witness the ceremony. All, that is to say,

except poor Rosa. But Miss Lizzie[3] had refused to give her leave. She had promised the yellow girl that she would take charge of the baby in the afternoon, and let her join the big dinner that was to be given to all the hands at sunset, and the dance that would follow it, but she would not consent to let her go to the church. Lizzie had her own reasons for the denial—Rosa might have been sure that she would never have been unjust or unkind to any one—but she did not choose to tell them to her servant.

She thought it would scarcely be delicate to let Rosa, who had the care of the poor outcast baby, and was like a second mother to it, form one of the gaping crowd to see Maraquita married to the Governor. It was something too terrible to Lizzie to think that her adopted sister could do this thing, and[4] she decided that herself and all who had any part to bear in her sinful secret were much better out of the way. So she had condemned Rosa to remain in the plantation with the infant, who was growing quite a big child, and the yellow girl was proportionately discontented.

There was a certain young Creole called Juan who had been paying her great attention lately, and whom she entertained serious thoughts of marrying. The silk handkerchief, the earrings, and the coral beads had all been donned for Juan’s benefit, and now he was off to the Fort with some other girl maybe—with Chloe, or Celeste, or Marie—and she had to walk up and down this stupid avenue with the baby in her arms. Rosa could have shaken the baby for keeping her from the much-coveted spectacle.

[5]As she was thinking over her disappointment, Judy—Mammy Lila’s granddaughter—walked from behind a tall bush, and confronted her.

‘Hillo, Rosa!’ she cried. ‘Is dat Missy Liz’s baby? My! how dat grown; she’s pretty heavy now, I guess.’

Judy was an ugly, cunning-looking young negress, of perhaps fifteen—tall and lanky and large-boned, with a propensity for lying and thieving and everything that was wrong.

‘Heavy?’ echoed Rosa; ‘you may say dat. She breaks my arm pretty well carrying her all day long. But ain’t you going to the wedding, Judy? It’s most time to be off. Don’t I wish I’se going too.’

‘Why ain’t you going, Rosa, gal? Uncle Mose say dat will be de finest sight ebber seen in San Diego. And you[6] got your Sunday gown on too! Why you not go?’

‘’Cause Missy Liz say no; and I nebber go back to her if I disobey! But you’se going, Judy, sure?’

‘No, Rosa! I’se got bad head dis morning,’ replied Judy, with a cunning look, and her lean hand to her woolly hair, ‘and I’se can’t stand long walk. I’se better stay here till de dinner-bell sound.’

‘Dere now!’ cried Rosa, with vexation. ‘Ain’t dat a muddle? Why, I’d gib my best earrings to be able to go. I shall nebber forgive myself dat I not see Miss Quita’s wedding.’

‘You can see de carriages coming down de drive; and Miss Quita in her white dress—all lace,’ said Judy.

‘Dat ain’t de ting! But what you low niggers know about grand folk’s ways? I want to be one of de church company,[7] and hear de wedding ceremony,’ replied Rosa, mouthing the long word.

‘So you can, den, Rosa. Jes’ gib de chile to me, and I’ll hold it till you come back. Don’t take no time to marry, you know; jest a few words, and it’s all over; and I won’t leave dis place while you’re gone.’

‘Is dat a fac’, Judy?’ exclaimed the yellow girl, with a brightening face. ‘Will you hold the baby whiles I gone? Den I’ll keep my word, and you shall hab de earrings, for you’re the berry pusson as I wanted to meet—dat’s so;’ and placing the infant in Judy’s arms, she disengaged the gilt trinkets from her ears, and laid them in her hand. ‘Judy, you’se a real good gal, and you won’t stir from dis avenue till I come back; and if you sees Miss Lizzie a-coming, you’ll bolt in bushes like rattlesnake? Is dat so?’

[8]‘Dat is so, Rosa. I’ll keep her safe, nebber fear. I likes nussing de babies, and my head ain’t good for nuffin else dis morning.’

‘I’ll hurry back quick as I can directly dat’s over!’ cried Rosa, as she darted down the tulip tree avenue, in order to reach the Fort before the carriages from Beauregard.

As soon as she was out of sight, Judy gave one look around to make sure she was unobserved, and then dived with the child into the thick bushes that skirted the drive on either side. She had not gone far before she was met by Henri de Courcelles. He was dressed much as usual, but he was looking very pale and dissipated, and there was a dark look about his eyes that seemed as though he had been drinking hard, or going without his natural rest. As[9] he encountered Judy, he accosted her roughly.

‘So you’ve got the child?’

‘Oh, yes, Massa Courcelles, and wid berry little trouble. Rosa jes’ mad to go to wedding. She jump wid joy when I tell her I’d hold de baby, and gib me her best earrings into de bargain; but I promise I be back here when she return from church, so massa won’t be long after her, eh?’

‘You shall be back as soon as ever it is possible: I promise you so much; but you must come with me to San Diego. You don’t suppose I’m going to carry that?’

‘Massa please,’ replied the coolie, shrugging her shoulders; ‘all same to me. I can tell Rosa anyting,—dat I’se too bad to walk, and took de baby to my hut, eh?’

[10]‘I’ve no doubt you are equal to inventing any number of lies to suit your purpose; but now you must follow me.’

De Courcelles led the way as he spoke by many a devious path through the thicket, until they reached the outer boundary of the plantation, where he hustled Judy and the child into a close carriage which he had in waiting, and ordered the driver to take them to the Fort.

Meanwhile, Maraquita, dressed in her bridal robes of lace and orange blossoms, and with a costly veil covering her to the ground, stepped into the carriage which was to convey her to church. The vehicle had been re-painted for the auspicious occasion, and re-lined with a delicate silver grey brocade. The horses were caparisoned in silver harness, with large cockades of white ribbon at their ears, and the coloured coachman and[11] footman in brand new liveries wore large bouquets of white flowers in their button-holes. Four or five other vehicles followed that in which sat the bride between her adoring parents, and contained relations of the family, and intimate friends who were staying in the house. It was a trying ordeal for Mr and Mrs Courtney, who were about to part with the one blossom of their marriage-tree; but though the father was nervous and agitated, and the mother could not prevent the tears rising to her eyes, the brilliant position their daughter had attained for herself was the greatest consideration in their minds, and outbalanced any pain they may have felt

at the impending separation. Quita herself felt overwhelmed at the knowledge of her good fortune. She had so dreaded lest something might occur to[12] mar her prospects, that she was almost hysterical at the idea that they were about to be consummated. She turned from one parent to the other in a glow of expectation and triumph, which flushed her usually pale cheeks, and lent a fire to her eye, that made her truly beautiful. As the carriage approached the Fort, in which the English Church was situated, they found the road lined with eager faces, both white and coloured, and a shout of welcome and congratulation went up as soon as they appeared. Sir Russell Johnstone was in the church porch waiting to receive his bride, and it would have been difficult to find a more lovely creature than stepped from the carriage and stood before him, trembling (as it appeared) with modesty and maiden shame. The church was crowded, every pew was filled with[13] friends and acquaintances carrying nosegays, the aisles were lined with darkies grinning from ear to ear, the pillars

and rails were wreathed with flowers and ferns. Never was there a prettier wedding, nor a more auspicious one. As Maraquita was led to the altar by her father and mother, the organist commenced to play, and the choir, who had been practising for the last month, sang a marriage hymn. Quita felt, for the time being, as if she were about to wed the man of her choice, and had no regrets to spare for a mistaken past. The flowers, the melody, the congratulatory looks by which she was surrounded, appealed to her senses, until she was ready to believe that she was worthy of them. Henri de Courcelles had no place whatever in her thoughts that morning. Out of sight, was truly out[14] of mind with her shallow soul, and she remembered nothing but that she was about to become Lady Johnstone, and all the unmarried girls in San Diego were envying her good luck. She went through the service as calmly as possible. Mrs Courtney sobbed like a school-girl, her husband blew his nose and changed his feet every minute, and Sir Russell was visibly agitated. Only the beautiful young bride made

her responses in an unfaltering voice, and held up her face as soon as the ceremony was over, to receive her bridegroom’s kiss, as quietly as if she had been married for ten years. It was over then, and there was nothing more to do but to sign her name in the register, and go forth to take her place in a world which seemed strewn with roses, and in which no inconvenient[15] memories should rise up to trouble her. The organ pealed forth the wedding march. Sir Russell extended his arm for her acceptance, and Maraquita realised that at last she really was his wife, and no one could deprive her of the position he had bestowed upon her. She beamed with smiles of satisfaction as she walked down the aisle on her husband’s arm, returning the bows on either side, and treading on the roses, and lilies, and myrtle strewn by the children in her path. Sir Russell’s carriage, with its four horses and outriders, and its stately guard of honour, was waiting to receive her, and take her back to her father’s house for breakfast, and her heart swelled with pride as she

caught sight of it, beyond the crowd that clustered round the church door[16] and steps, and threatened to impede her way. But she had hardly placed her foot on the red carpet that had been laid down for her accommodation, when her eye fell on a group that riveted her to the spot, and almost made her breath stop,—a group that seemed to rise up as it were from the very earth itself, like a Nemesis, to rob her of her joy. Maraquita stared at it as if she were turning to stone, while her face grew deadly pale, and her limbs tottered under her. Her first impulse had been to scream, but the strong instinct of self-preservation inherent in every nature prevented her, and the effort to restrain herself resulted in her falling suddenly from Sir Russell’s support, and sinking to the ground in a dead faint. A dozen people were round her in a moment.[17] Some declared it must be the heat—others, the excitement and fatigue—only one person amongst them all, and that was her mother, Mrs Courtney, discovered the real cause of her daughter’s emotion. She had come

upon the scene in time to see the dark handsome face of Henri de Courcelles glaring like that of an avenging angel above the crowd, whilst in his arms he held up high on view his infant. She had cowered herself beneath the sight—no wonder it had affected her poor Maraquita. In a commanding voice she had desired the church peons to disperse the crowd, and when the bride was sufficiently recovered to be taken to her carriage, no one was left to molest her. One anxious despairing look passed between her mother and herself, but a hurried[18] whisper from Mrs Courtney somewhat reassured her, and by the time they reached Beauregard, Maraquita was to all appearances herself again. But only to the view of strangers, for long after she had left San Diego, and the Government steamer was conveying Sir Russell and Lady Johnstone to a sister island to spend their honeymoon, she sat with her large dark eyes staring out into the star-bespangled night, in which she saw nothing but the picture of a man’s face, full of hate and frenzy and revenge,—of a man who held a little

infant in his arms. And as she thought of it, Lady Johnstone felt the tears roll down her face (as they should not have rolled down the face of a newly-wedded woman), in memory of a past which she hated and loved, and longed-for and dreaded, all at the same time.

CHAPTER II.

HUGH NORRIS had not been slow to avail himself of Lizzie’s permission to visit her. He had knocked about a good deal in the world, and he had seen all sorts and conditions of women, but he had never met any one to interest him, and hold his sympathies, like the Doctor’s daughter. It was not only that she was firm and sweet in temper, and strong in mind, and clever and energetic—there was a more binding tie between them than that. They thought together; and if men and[20] women would realise that kindred tastes and ideas form the only lasting bond between friends, there would be fewer unhappy marriages than there are. There is a great deal of talk heard on occasions about the happiness of surrendering one’s opinions in deference to those of the person one loves, but that notion is only believed in by the men who wish to be master, and ride roughshod over their household gods. To surrender is to give up one’s mental and moral liberty, and there may be duty in bondage, but there can be no pleasure. Marriage should be the cementing of a friendship between the

sexes, and it is the only safe light by which to regard it. There should be plenty of giving in it, but no giving up! And Captain Norris felt that if Lizzie Fellows could learn to regard him as[21] he did her, there would be very few jars in their domestic ménage. He had been detained in San Diego much longer than he had anticipated. Just as he got his cargo on board, and was ready to start, a serious damage had been discovered in the Trevelyan, and he had been compelled to send her into dock for repairs. Although the delay meant a considerable loss of money to him, Captain Norris did not regret it. He did not feel easy, in common with many of the residents, with regard to the safety of the island; and to leave Lizzie in possible danger, surrounded by a horde of mutinous coolies, and without the possibility of obtaining news of her for months together, would have been a sore trial to him. He would have taken her with him gladly as his wife, or as an ordinary passenger, but he knew her character[22] too well to propose it. Had she been affianced to him, and danger threatened

her benefactor and his family, she would have died with them, sooner than desert them in the time of uncertainty. And uncertainty seemed to prevail in San Diego. Grave mutterings were heard on every side of averted rebellions and suppressed mutinies, and the planters knew that it needed but the necessary boldness on the part of one set of hands to rise, to set the whole negro population aflame with the lust for rapine and murder. Sir Russell Johnstone was not a favourite amongst them, for he disliked the coloured people, and had passed some very harsh sentences on the prisoners brought up to him for judgment, and his name was seldom mentioned without an execration attached to it. The hands on Beauregard had[23] not shown discontent beyond the ordinary grumblings and small impertinences common amongst the coolies; but Hugh Norris knew the character of the people well, and he distrusted them. He remembered how in former mutinies, both in the East and West Indies, the actual fight for the supremacy had been preceded for a long time by half-suppressed

murmurs and complaints, like the muttering of the elements before a tempest, and that, when the storm broke, it came like a clap of thunder, suddenly and unexpectedly, and overwhelmed its victims before they were hardly aware of the danger they incurred. So he was glad than otherwise to be detained in San Diego, though what he heard and saw there did not tend to reassure him. He was present at Maraquita’s wedding, being a friend both of Sir[24] Russell Johnstone and the Courtneys; but he declined the invitation to the breakfast, both because he disliked such festivities, and that Lizzie Fellows, he knew, would not be there. But on the evening of the same day he strolled into her bungalow, and seated himself without ceremony like an old friend.

‘So, Lizzie,’ he commenced, ‘you were not present at the grand wedding this morning?’

‘No. I asked them to excuse me, Captain Norris. My dear father’s recent death renders it very unfit that I should mix in any gaiety.’

‘But your adopted sister’s marriage, Lizzie! Surely that was an occasion on which you might have relaxed your strict seclusion?’

He had marked the coolness which had[25] separated Lizzie of late from Mrs Courtney and her daughter, and he had his own suspicions on the subject; but he had not presumed to put them into words.

‘They didn’t think so. They were quite satisfied to let me follow my own wishes,’ replied the girl quietly.

‘And how is your nurse-child? Thriving?’

Lizzie’s eyes sparkled.