There was unmistakable love and joy in her face and voice. She made no effort to conceal her glad surprise. Had she not been waiting for this hour for months, had she not dressed for him daily, determined that whenever he came he should find her at her best? And now, conscious of her pretty, rose-tinted mull, that was so becoming to her dusky beauty, she rejoiced that her efforts were crowned with success. Her beauty could not fail to make a strong impression.
But he started back in surprise and disappointment, and forgetting even the conventional greeting he owed her, exclaimed, eagerly:
"Where is Flower?"
"Flower?" cried Jewel, sharply, with a clouded brow. "Oh, Mr. Meredith, did you not know? Poor Flower is dead!"
[CHAPTER XXI.]
Jewel had not meant to break the truth so suddenly to Laurie Meredith, but his cruel indifference to herself, and his anxiety over Flower, piqued her into retorting upon him so suddenly. She had her revenge, for, after gazing at her blankly for one agonized moment, the young man threw up his arms, staggered wildly, then fell like a log at her feet.
The terrible revulsion of feeling from love, hope, and expectancy to despair had almost slain him, and he lay for several minutes quite unconscious, while Jewel knelt beside him in an agony of fear.
"He is dead, and all my schemes have been in vain," she thought, wildly; and in her despair she kissed the cold, white face, and laid her dark head on the pulseless breast of the man she loved so wildly, and wished that she too were dead and cold.
Presently she lifted her head and laid her cheek against his, whispering, reproachfully: