She pressed them in her hands, gloating over them with more delight than a ball-room belle would have done over the most priceless diamonds, for they represented the power she thirsted for so ardently—the power to torment those whom she hated.
She cared nothing for the fact, that in spite of all that had come and gone, poor, unhappy Flower was her half-sister still. She only knew that ever since the fatal hour when Laurie Meredith had made choice between them she had hated the blue-eyed, golden-haired beauty with a jealous fury that was as pitiless as death.
She thought she was a very clever girl, she had managed everything so adroitly. In the first place, she had bribed Sam to give her Flower's letter that night, and to take back a reply from herself. She had found out from that letter that Flower was Laurie Meredith's wife, that she was going away with him, and that a telegram had called him away one day sooner, causing him to write to Flower to come at once to him, as he must be far on his way north before the next night, which was set as the time for them to leave.
In that sudden emergency Jewel's keen wits served her well. She remembered that her handwriting was so similar to her sister's that few could tell them apart, so she decided upon a bold step. She wrote to Laurie Meredith in his wife's name, declaring that she had changed her mind about going with him, that she could not bring herself to leave her mother and sister, but that she would be his true and faithful wife, and wait for him until he came back from Germany.
The young husband was most bitterly disappointed, but the telegram that summoned him to a parent's sick-bed admitted of no delay. He went without Flower, but he wrote to her very soon from his Northern home, entreating her to reconsider her determination and join him there.
Jewel had a fervent admirer in the person of the post-office clerk.
By cleverly playing on his vanity she induced him to let her have Flower's letters, and each one she answered briefly, by denying Laurie Meredith's wish and indulging in weak regrets over the haste with which she had wedded him, lamenting lest her mother should find out her folly and withhold forgiveness.
So it was that not one of those loving letters, for which Flower would have given her very life, ever reached her, and Jewel sat here gloating over their possession, while in the very next room poor little Flower lay upon her sleepless bed, an image of despair, wondering if it could be true all that Jewel had told her—that she was a child of shame, her mother a bad, wicked woman, and her father a sinful wretch who had broken the hearts of both her mother and Jewel's.