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
[Illustration]
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
CHAPTER I. 1
CHAPTER II. 19
CHAPTER III. 57
CHAPTER IV. 94
CHAPTER V. 129
CHAPTER VI. 165
CHAPTER VII. 201
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.
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=GARRISON GOSSIP, Gathered in Blankhampton.= By JOHN STRANGE WINTER.
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=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.’
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[Illustration]
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 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 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 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.
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 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, 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?’
‘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 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?’
‘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 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 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 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 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 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 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. 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
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.
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