When Laurie Meredith was well enough to go away again, the summer was
more than half gone, and he felt that he owed a debt of gratitude to
Jewel Fielding for her hospitality and friendliness that he knew not
how to pay, since she refused money, and there was nothing else that he
could give.
The situation was most embarrassing, for in spite of his sorrow,
sickness, and preoccupation, he could not help seeing that Jewel took
more than a friendly interest in himself.
It was this that decided him to go away at once, that he might give no
encouragement to her fancy. He said to himself that his heart was dead,
that he could never reciprocate her love, so he would go away, and she
was so young and gay she would soon forget him.
"If there is anything I can do for you at any time, Jewel, remember
that I desire you to command my services," he said to her, when he
broke to her, as gently as he could, the news that he was going away
the next day.
She had borne it more calmly than he had expected. The bright cheeks
grew pale, and the lashes drooped to hide the sadness in the dark eyes,
but she said, eagerly:
"There is something you can do for me--now. I have a favor to ask of
you."
"You have only to name it," he replied, gallantly; and she began to
tell him that she was tired of her life in this quiet seaport town of
Virginia.
She was rich, and she longed to live in the city and mix with its
gayeties, that she might forget the sorrows she had borne here.
"You live in Boston; you have a mother and sister," she said. "Would it
be wrong for me to come to Boston to live? Would it be too much to ask
your family to present me in society?"
He was surprised and secretly annoyed. He saw her drift in a moment.
She did not mean to lose sight of him. Her love was stronger than he
had thought.
He did not answer her for a moment, from sheer surprise, and she
continued:
"I have a most excellent lady for a companion, as you know. I should
like to buy a handsome house in your city, and set up housekeeping with
Mrs. Wellings as my chaperon and companion. There would be nothing
imprudent in that, I suppose?"
He was obliged to own that, as far as he knew, such a proceeding would
be quite proper.
"Then it is settled!" she cried, joyfully. "Now, will you be so kind,
when you get home, as to see a real estate man and buy a handsome house
for me? I shall like it all the better if it is near your home, for I
know I shall be fond of your mother and sisters--that is, if they are
all like you."
He could not help coloring at the frankly spoken words, and he cried
out, hastily:
"But, my dear Miss Fielding, I fear I should not be able to please you
in the selection of a house. It would be much better for your guardian
to attend to that matter."
"He is an old stupid; I would not trust him in the selection of such
a house as I want," she replied, vivaciously; and, after thinking a
moment, he said:
"Then you should select it yourself. What would you say to coming to
Boston this autumn as the guest of my mother?"
"I should be charmed!" Jewel declared, graciously.
"Then my mother shall send you an invitation, and then you can select a
house yourself," he said, adding, with a slight smile: "I predict that
you will be a belle when you enter society."
"What! a little country girl like me?" cried Jewel, with sparkling
eyes; and he saw that she was delighted at the compliment, and told
himself that this was the very best thing he could have thought
of--inviting her to his home. In society she would see so many handsome
men she would get over her penchant for him.
"And I am going abroad again, anyway. I could not bear a quiet life
now. I must seek oblivion in strange scenes and a new life," he
thought, sighing, as he left her and went out into the grounds, where
everything reminded him so vividly of his little, lost love.
Alas! she was gone now from those scenes that her fairy form had
brightened, and the low murmur of the sea, as it rolled with a sullen
murmur in to the shore, tortured him with the thought that it held her
in its cruel embrace.
"For the heart of the waters is cruel,
And the kisses are dire of their lips,
And their waves are as fire is to fuel
To the strength of the sea-faring ships,
Though the sea's eye gleam as a jewel
To the sun's eye back as he dips."
"Who would have dreamed," he thought, "last summer, that such a tragedy
would have overtaken this little family? The mother insane, one
daughter dead, the other restless and unhappy because of an unhappy
love! Poor Jewel! she is indeed bereaved!" he thought, as he walked
down a graveled path toward the rear of the house, to get away from the
sorrowful sound of the ever-restless sea.
And as his walk took him quite near the servants' quarters, he suddenly
came face to face with old Maria's relict, Sam, whom he had never seen
since that night last summer when he had sent him to carry that letter
to Flower.
At first the mulatto looked sheepish and inclined to retreat; but,
seeing Laurie's hand go into his pocket, he turned back, and was
presented with a bright silver dollar, for which he returned profuse
thanks.
"Ah, Sam, no more letters to carry now. She is dead, poor Flower!"
sighed the young man, sorrowfully, and the mulatto gave him a strange
glance, and replied, resentfully:
"Yes, she's dead, and it's your fault, too, Mr. Meredith! What made
you sneak off and leave poor Maria's nuss child to bear her shame and
disgrace by herself?"
"Shame and disgrace!" the young man repeated, bewilderedly, and Sam
looked around, and seeing no one near, whispered:
"Guess no one hain't told you about my dream, has they, now?"
"No," Laurie answered, wondering if Sam were drunk or crazy, yet
submitting to be drawn aside into a convenient arbor, where the story
of Sam's return with his bride that fateful night was quickly told.
Laurie Meredith's pale face grew whiter and more haggard still, and
Sam, seeing it, added, quickly: "But 'twan't nuthin' but a dream, sir,
or a warnin' o' her death, for she were dead and drowndid then, pore
gal!"
"But, Sam, there could have been nothing like that--a child, I
mean--Flower would have written to me!" he exclaimed, incoherently.
"Lor' bless you, Mr. Meredith, there was a child comin'--hain't Miss
Jewel told you?" cried Sam, and a terrible groan answered him:
"My wife, my little wife, oh, why did you not tell me!" and then he
rushed wildly to Jewel, demanding to know why she had kept this from
him.
"My sister's disgrace--oh, how could I tell you, who loved her, of that
dark stain?" she began; but he interrupted, wildly:
"There was no stain, no disgrace; she was my wife by a secret marriage,
and she promised to go away with me but she was afraid of her mother,
and stayed. Jewel, this story must be published to the world, that no
stain may rest on her memory," he declared, passionately to the cruel
girl who had brought about all this misery.