"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.
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
Jewel bit her lips in anger and scorn when she learned that Laurie Meredith had found out the secret she had guarded so carefully, fearing lest he should love the memory of the dead girl better for that knowledge.