A CROWN OF SHAME.
VOL. II.
A CROWN OF SHAME.
_A NOVEL._
BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT,
AUTHOR OF
‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY SISTER THE ACTRESS,’
ETC. ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. II.
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. 26
CHAPTER III. 50
CHAPTER IV. 81
CHAPTER V. 106
CHAPTER VI. 137
CHAPTER VII. 157
CHAPTER VIII. 193
CHAPTER IX. 213
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.
[Illustration]
A CROWN OF SHAME.
CHAPTER I.
He left Liz weeping over the dead body of her father. How paltry all
other troubles seemed to be, as she did so. She had no power, at
that moment, to realise any fact but one,--that he had left her, and
without a warning. He, who had been her sole protector and companion,
beside whom she had walked every moment of her life, sharing his
knowledge, and his duties, and his cares, had gone forth into the
dreamland without her, and for the future she must struggle through
life as best she might, alone. Liz was not ignorant of the cause of
her father’s death, but she had been quite unprepared for it. She had
known for some time past that he had a weak heart, but men lived with
such, sometimes to their three score years and ten. He had passed a
tranquil and unexciting life. The passions which had raged stormily
perhaps in his youth had forsaken him in his latter days, and he had
appeared likely to live on to a good old age. But the events of the
last week had greatly upset him. Liz had no doubt, as she looked at his
pale, calm features, that his sudden death lay, in a great measure,
at Maraquita’s door, and the fact did not make her feel more tenderly
towards her adopted sister. But the infant was wailing in her arms,
and she felt that something must be done at once. This was no time for
weeping, or inaction. She turned on her heel, with set features, and
teeth closely clenched together, and passed into the outer room to
summon her negress attendant Chloe to her aid. Chloe was conspicuous
only by her absence, but on the threshold of the outer door she found
the yellow girl, Rosa, slowly rocking herself to and fro.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Lizzie sternly. ‘Have you not
brought me into enough trouble already?’
The girl turned round and caught the folds of her dress, and buried
her face in them, crying. The coloured people are very emotional, and
a sudden remorse had stabbed the depths of poor Rosa’s heart.
‘Oh, Miss Lizzie,’ she sobbed, ‘I’se so sorry the poor Doctor dead!
Massa Courcelles tell me so as he went out. The dear good Doctor, who
was so berry kind to me in my sickness, and so good to my little Carlo,
and now he gone too, and me nebber see him any more, and my heart is
broke, Miss Liz, my heart is broke!’
This tribute to her dead father’s virtues affected Liz more than
anything else could have done.
‘If _you_ are so sorry for his loss, Rosa,’ she answered gently,
‘what do you suppose _I_ must feel. I seem to have lost everything
to-day--_everything_,’ she added, in a vague and weary tone.
‘Oh, Missy Liz, I’se so sorry!’ repeated Rosa. ‘But what can I do to
help you, and to take some of dis trouble off you? Let me do something,
Missy Liz, to show I’se real sorry.’
‘You can go up to the White House, Rosa, and tell Mr Courtney
of--of--_this_, and say I should like to see him as soon as he can come
to me. I can’t find Chloe anywhere.’
‘Ah! dat Chloe no good. She too stupid!’ cried Rosa, with all a
negress’s jealousy. ‘And may I come back, too, Missy Liz, with Massa
Courtney, and help you nurse the baby, same as you helped me with
little Carlo?’
The allusion to the child brought the trouble it had caused her too
vividly to Lizzie’s mind. She dropped into a chair, and burst into
tears.
‘Oh, Rosa! Rosa! you have spoiled my life for me. How could you be so
cruel?’
The yellow girl crawled on her knees to the side of the Doctor’s
daughter.
‘Missy Liz, what I done so bad? Isn’t dat baby your own baby, then?’
‘Of course it isn’t! How could you think such a thing of me? It is a
little nurse-child which was left in charge of my dear father, and I
was minding it for him. But you made Monsieur de Courcelles believe
that it belongs to me, and you have parted us for ever. He was to have
been my husband, Rosa, but he never will be so now; never--never!’
Rosa’s eyes opened with surprise.
‘Missy Liz, you must tell him I’se a liar. I know noting of de baby,
only I see it on your bed, and I’se so sorry I speak to Massa
Courcelles about it. It was de debbil spoke, Missy Liz, and not me.
Something seem to come in my head and say dat chile like my little
Carlo, and you no better den me. But I see now I’se all wrong, and you
too good to do such a drefful thing. You tell Massa Courcelles I’se a
liar, and it’ll be all right again, Missy Liz.’
‘No, Rosa, it will never be right again in the way you mean. I _did_
tell Monsieur de Courcelles what you say, but he refused to believe me.
No one will believe me now, I am afraid,’ said Liz mournfully, ‘and I
must bear the brunt of my own rash promise.’
‘Oh! Missy Liz, must you keep dat baby dat isn’t yours, and take de
trouble of it all your life?’
‘I think so, Rosa. I have nowhere to send it; and you would not have me
turn it out on the cold world alone? No, my dear dead father left it
to me as a sacred charge,’ cried Lizzie, weeping, ‘and I will guard it,
whatever it may cost me. It will be something to do for his sake.’
‘Oh, Miss Lizzie!’ exclaimed Rosa, awed by a display of heroism she
could not understand, ‘you berry good woman! I nebber know till dis day
how good a woman you are. Let me stay with you, Miss Lizzie. Send dat
Chloe back to huts, and let me be your servant, ’stead of her. Chloe
don’t know nuffin of children. _She_ not had a little boy, like me. Let
me nurse dat baby for you, and I will be faithful, trust me, Missy Liz,
and nebber let de debbil speak through my mouth again.’
‘I believe you, Rosa,’ replied Lizzie. ‘I believe you are sorry for the
mischief you have done, and that you would undo it if you could. You
were a good mother to little Carlo, and you would be a kind nurse to
this poor little one. If it can be managed, it shall be arranged so,
but we can do nothing without the leave of Mr Courtney. Go now and tell
him of the grief I am in, and we will talk of these things another day.’
‘But I will come back and hold de baby for you, Missy Liz!’ exclaimed
the yellow girl, as she set off towards the White House.
Liz walked back into the death chamber, and mechanically performed
the necessary offices to prepare her father’s body for the grave. She
did not weep again as she did so. The blow of her two great losses,
coming so quickly one upon the other, had stunned her, and dried up
the sources of her tears. She would have time to think and weep, she
thought, by-and-by. When Mr Courtney arrived post-haste in answer to
her summons, his grief appeared to be scarcely less than her own. He
had been sincerely and deeply attached to this erring friend of his
youthful days, and had never anticipated losing him so soon. He shed
tears freely over the silent corpse, and kept on assuring Lizzie that
her future should be one of his first cares.
‘Don’t let that trouble you, my dear,’ he reiterated. ‘I looked upon
your dear father as my brother, and you shall never miss his protection
whilst I can extend it to you. From this moment, Lizzie, I shall regard
you as my daughter, and as soon as the sad ceremonies which we must go
through, are concluded, I shall carry you off to the White House, and
consider you second only in my affection to Maraquita.’
‘Dear Mr Courtney, you are too good to me,’ gasped Lizzie,
‘but--but--please don’t speak of my future to me to-day.’
‘No, no, of course not. It was thoughtless of me,’ said the planter;
‘but I did it with the view to set your mind at ease. To-day we must
give up entirely to thoughts of my dear and valued friend.’
He imagined that the girl’s mind was too distracted to dwell on
anything but her great loss; but Lizzie had remembered that before the
morrow, the scandal that was being spread abroad concerning her would
reach his ears, and render her unfit in his eyes to be the companion of
his daughter.
When he had told her what arrangements he had made for the funeral,
which (according to the custom in hot climates) was to take place that
evening, Mr Courtney, with a farewell grasp of his dead friend’s hand,
turned to leave the bungalow, when his eye fell upon the yellow girl,
Rosa, squatting on the floor with the baby in her arms.
‘What infant is that?’ he demanded indifferently, for it was so wrapped
up in flannel that he could not see its face.
Liz had anticipated the question, and dreaded it; but she felt evasion
would be useless, and had not attempted to send the child out of his
sight.
‘It is a little girl which was confided to my dear father’s care,’ she
answered, in a low voice. ‘And he was going to consult Dr Martin at the
Fort about a nurse to take the charge of it, when he was called away.’
Mr Courtney’s eyes opened somewhat at her explanation.
‘Is it a white child then?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it is a white child,’ replied Lizzie, with a deep sigh, as she
stood trembling at what might follow. But Mr Courtney said no more on
the subject. Perhaps his mind was too full of his lost friend to think
of minor things, anyway he left the bungalow without another word or
look, and Lizzie breathed more freely when he had gone. She spent the
remainder of the day beside the remains of the father whom she had
loved so well, and when the sun had sunk in the west, and the cool sea
breezes commenced to blow over San Diego, she followed his coffin to
the little European burial ground, which was situated on the top of a
hill, and in full view of the glorious ocean. She saw that there were
many friends, both white and coloured, gathered round the open grave
but she was in no fit condition to recognise who they were. Only, as
the last words of the solemn service were concluded, and she heard the
sods of earth rattle on the coffin lid, and felt as if she must throw
herself in with them, and be buried with all she loved best in this
world, she found some one supporting her failing steps on either side,
and looking up saw she was standing between Mr Courtney and Captain
Norris.
‘Come, my dear child,’ whispered the former. ‘It is all over now. Let
us see you safely to your home.’
They led her between them back to the empty bungalow, and the three
friends sat down together in the sitting-room, whilst Rosa squatted
in the verandah with Maraquita’s baby in her arms. Liz, making an
effort to battle with her emotion, busied herself with setting some
light refreshment before her guests. Mr Courtney drank a glass of iced
sherbet in silence, and then cleared his throat as though to force
himself to speak.
‘Lizzie, my dear, I have a good deal to say to you, and I wish to say
it now. I might leave it till to-morrow, but I think it will do you
good to fix your mind at once upon business, and to settle what you are
to do in the future.’
Lizzie turned a little paler than she had been. She had understood her
future to be settled that morning. But she guessed why it required
further explanation now.
‘Captain Norris, than whom I think your dear father had no warmer
friend, has been talking to me on the subject this afternoon, and has
consented to become the guardian and trustee of your interests.’
‘I am of age,’ interrupted Lizzie, with open eyes; ‘I require no
guardian.’
‘Stop, my dear, and let me finish what I have to say. You may not
require a personal guardian, but your monetary interests may need
looking after. I am not likely to forget you at my death, Lizzie.’
‘Indeed, Mr Courtney, you are too good to me,’ said Liz,--‘as you were
to my poor father,’ she added, in a lower voice.
‘Your father was my dearest friend: I can never forget that,’ replied
the planter; ‘and I am only following the dictates of my affection
for him in making a suitable provision for his daughter. I have been
thinking the matter over deeply, Lizzie, and I have decided that I
cannot spare you from amongst my coolies. Why should you not carry on
the work from which your father has been so suddenly called away? I
know you are competent to do so, from what he himself has told me, and
in any difficult cases you can always call in the assistance of the
Doctor from the Fort. What I propose is that you should continue to
live in this bungalow (the furniture and effects of which I shall make
over to you as your own property), and to work amongst the coloured
people; and I will gladly pay you the same remuneration as heretofore.
Don’t you think it will be the best plan, Lizzie, and that you will be
happier if you bravely try to forget your grief, in carrying on a life
of activity and usefulness?’
‘I am _sure_ it will be best,’ she answered, in a low tone.
Her pride, which had made her divine at once the cause of her
benefactor’s change of mind, would have also prompted her to refuse his
offers of assistance, but she was helpless in the matter. She had no
friends to go to, no resources to fall back upon. What could she have
done, left alone in San Diego, but live on charity, which she would
rather have died than accept? Mr Courtney’s proposal was at least not a
humiliating one. He offered her money in return for her labour, and she
was resolved to earn it, and thanked Heaven she was capable of doing
so. That he should not even have alluded to his promise of the morning
wounded but did not surprise her. He had heard the wretched slander,
which was doubtless already going the round of the plantation,
concerning her. Henri de Courcelles had, perhaps, repeated it, and Mr
Courtney already regretted that he had held out hopes he could not
fulfil. Well, he should not read her disappointment in her eyes. She
would put a brave face on the matter, and battle (as best she could)
for herself; for the oath she had taken to her dead father was doubly
sacred, now that all hope of release from it was over.
‘We will do all in our power to make your life comfortable,’ continued
Mr Courtney; ‘and you may always depend on me, Lizzie, as your friend.’
He did not include his wife’s and daughter’s friendship with his own,
and Lizzie noticed the omission, and shrunk under it.
‘Mr Courtney,’ she said, in a firm voice, though her eyes were full of
tears, ‘I thank you for your offers of assistance, and I accept them
gratefully. I did not know till a few days back, the whole extent to
which my poor father was indebted to you, but I shall never forget it,
and if I can ever repay it in the slightest degree, I will.’
‘Hush, my dear! It was nothing. Don’t speak of it now.’
‘It was his _life_, Mr Courtney, and I should not be his daughter were
I unmindful of it. I should have liked to relieve you of the burden,
now _he_ is gone, but I don’t know what I could do, without friends,
and in a foreign country. So I will remain on (as you are good enough
to propose), and work among your plantation hands, and do all I
possibly can to return your kindness to us both.’
‘Lizzie, my dear, I don’t wish you to think of it as if it were a
favour. The obligation is quite as much on my side. And you mustn’t
speak of yourself as friendless, either, my dear. You have friends on
all sides, I am sure of that. You know what _I_ feel towards you; and
here is Captain Norris, grieving only second to myself for your loss;
and every one in San Diego loves and respects you. You may take my word
for that, Lizzie.’
Mr Courtney had risen, as if to take his departure, whilst he spoke,
and now stood in the doorway, with his straw hat in his hand, and
beckoned her towards him.
‘By the way,’ he added, in a lower tone, ‘what do you intend to do
about that child, Lizzie?’ jerking his head towards Rosa and the baby.
‘What should I do about it?’ she returned. ‘I know no place to send it
to. It was in the charge of Mammy Lila, but she died of the fever. I
suppose I must keep it here.’
‘Where are its parents?’ demanded the planter inquisitively.
‘It has none, Mr Courtney, or none who will own it.’
‘Dear me! That is very strange, and very awkward. Who confided it to
your father’s care?’
‘I am not at liberty to tell you, sir.’
‘Do you know then?’
She paused for a moment, and then answered, in a husky tone,--
‘Yes.’
‘And you will not tell me, Lizzie?’
‘I am bound under a solemn oath, Mr Courtney, not to reveal anything
about that child, and I must beg of you not to question me.’
‘It looks bad for you, my dear, and may be the cause of a great deal of
future unhappiness. There are not so many Europeans on the island that
such an event can occur without comment; and if you persist in holding
your tongue on the subject, people _will_ talk about it, and to your
disadvantage.’
‘Then they _must_ talk, Mr Courtney,’ replied Lizzie boldly, though she
had turned very pale. ‘I cannot break my promise to my father, for any
consideration, not even to save my reputation.’
‘Lizzie,’ whispered the planter presently, ‘promise me at least to send
the child away. Let _me_ send it away for you. You don’t know _what_
people are saying about you. Even De Courcelles has heard the rumour,
and came to me for an explanation of it. I will ask you no questions,
my dear, but let me help you in the matter by sending the infant to one
of the sister islands. I cannot bear to think that any one should dare
to say a word against you, for your father’s sake.’
‘You are very kind, Mr Courtney, but I have made up my mind on this
subject, and the child will remain with me. Sending her away now to the
care of a hireling, will not remove the stain her presence here has
cast upon my character; and I have reasons for wishing to bring her up
myself. If you object to it, I will relieve you of the burden of both
of us; but that infant is my father’s last charge to me, and I will
keep it.’
‘If you would only trust _me_ with the secret of its birth, I could
fight your battle with you,’ said Mr Courtney sadly.
‘I will trust no one, sir. I have lost all that I cared for in this
world, through its means, and I will at least have the satisfaction of
knowing that I have remained true to myself.’
‘Very well, my dear; good-night; and remember I am still your friend,’
replied the planter, as he walked slowly away.
Lizzie looked after him for a moment, and then returning to the
apartment, and regardless of the presence of Hugh Norris, she flung
herself into a chair, and burst into a flood of tears.
‘_Still my friend!_’ she repeated. ‘Yes, but a friend without any trust
or confidence left in me. Ah! what is the use of his assurances? I can
read his heart too well! I have not a friend left in the world.’
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