Chapter XXIV: Lulu to Her Mother

"Even to the delicacy of their hands
There was resemblance, such as true blood wears."

--BYRON.

"LONDON, ENG., November 16th, 1873.

"Dear, dearest mother, whom I long so much to see that it seems
impossible to write you, sitting tamely here, all that is in my
heart, how can I express my grief and anxiety at hearing that you
are still in that terribly stricken city, and that there seems no
present prospect of the abatement of that awful epidemic? Oh,
mother, how could you go--you, and brother Willie, and Grace--all
my dear ones--when you knew what anguish it must cause me in my
absence? I know that it is right--know that it is a Christian's
bounden duty to comfort the sick and afflicted, and I honor you each
in my whole heart for such noble, self-sacrificing devotion as you
are displaying. But oh, how my heart is aching with the dread! Oh,
mother, what if one of you should be taken away? Oh, I cannot, cannot
bear the thought! And yet a strange _presentiment_ weighs on me
that on one or the other of your dear faces I will never look again
in this world. Bruce, dear Bruce, who is so kind and loving to me,
tells me these are only homesick fancies. Aunt Conway persuades me
that I am only nervous and depressed, and that my fancies are but
the result of my feeble condition of health just now; but am certain
that it is more than all this. I pray that it may not be, but my
whole heart sinks with a sense of prophetic dread, and if Bruce would
only consent, I should at once return to the United States and join
you in Memphis; but neither he nor Aunt Conway will listen to such
a thing--their plans being made to spend a portion of the winter in
Italy, certainly--and the chances are I shall not see you, my sweet
mamma, until spring, though how I shall survive our separation so
long I cannot tell. I miss you--oh, I miss you so much! and I have
wished for you so often! Even dear Bruce cannot make up to me my loss
in you.

"I suppose it is not necessary to describe all that I have seen
in this great city, as Brother Willie's letters from here were so
exhaustive and entertaining that they have left no new field of
description on which to waste my spare stock of adjectives.

"But, mother, I am so demure and quiet in my tastes that I care very
little for all the glories of the old world, and I pine to go to you,
and to be at home again, much to my dear husband's chagrin, who is
disappointed that I do not enter with more enthusiasm into all the
beauties of art and nature that we have seen in our travels. Mrs.
Conway applauds everything, but I believe it is the fashion to do
so--is it not? and _she_ is _so_ fashionable, you know! I honestly
appreciate all I see that is appreciable, I think, but not with the
keen pleasure of most travelers. I am a home-bird, I suppose--one of
the little timid brown birds that hop contentedly about the quiet
garden paths, and though having wings, do not care to fly.

"'The world of the affections is my world,
Not that of man's ambition.'"

"Mother, do you remember when I wrote you from Brighton, England,
about the little child in whom I was so strangely interested?--whose
great resemblance to some one of whom I could not think puzzled and
interested me so? Well, I have met again with the little darling
here, and have visited his grandparents at their elegant villa
just outside the city--very old people, I believe I wrote you they
were--and devoted to this child, who is, so I am told, the last
of the race and name, which has been in its time a very noble, as
it is now, a very old one. They are very wealthy and very proud
people--the old baronet, Sir Robert Willoughby, the haughtiest old
aristocrat I ever met. His wife, Lady Marguerite, is of a sweeter,
gentler type, yet, I fancy, very much in awe of her stern lord.
Little Earle--the heir of this great wealth and proud title--is one
of the most interesting little children I ever saw--wonderfully
bright and intelligent. He has taken a flattering liking to me, and
is always, when in my company, exerting his childish powers for my
entertainment. We visit quite frequently--"charming people," Aunt
Conway calls them. The little boy prattles to me, sometimes in an
incoherent sort of fashion, of his mother, who seems to be a sort of
faint, almost forgotten image in his baby mind. He is not more than
three or four years old--well grown for his age. I have observed
(Bruce, teasing fellow, says I have only fancied it,) that they do
not like to hear the little boy speak of his mother. They never
mention her themselves, and I have been given to understand that she
is dead, but they have never said so in plain terms. The little one
does not at all resemble his grandparents.

"I commented casually on this to Lady Marguerite one day, and she
answered no, that, to her great regret, the child resembled his
father's family most, and she colored, and looked so annoyed, that
I felt sorry I had said so much, and tried to mend the matter by
saying that he had more the appearance of an American child than an
English one. She flushed even deeper than before, and said that
she had never been in America, and never to her knowledge seen an
American child, but that Earle's parents were in that country at the
time of his birth, and remained there some time after, which probably
accounted for his American look--she did not know. We said no more
on the subject, but the slight mystery that seemed to surround it
made me think of it all the more; and, mother, now I will tell you
why I have taken such an interest in the child. Aunt Conway and Bruce
jestingly declare me a monomaniac on this subject, though they do
not pretend to deny the fact of the likeness, which struck me the
very first time I saw him. Mother, this little baronet that is to
be, this little English child, with his long line of proud ancestry,
his haughty, blue-eyed grandparents, his fragile, blue-eyed mother,
whose picture I have seen in their picture-gallery--this little
dark-eyed boy is enough like Paul and Grace Winans to be the _child
they lost so strangely in Washington two years ago_! He has the
rarely beautiful dark eyes, the dazzling smile of Senator Winans, the
very features, expression, peculiar gestures, and seraphic fairness
of Grace. It was a long time before this united likeness became clear
to me. Then it dawned on me like a flash of lightning, and now I am
continually reminded of dear Grace in the features and expressions
of this little child. It perplexes and worries me, although Bruce
assures me that it can only be one of those accidental resemblances
that we meet sometimes at opposite sides of the world. Can this be
so? It puzzles me, anyhow, and I heartily wish that the missing
Senator--or General Winans he is now, you know--were here. I should
certainly give him a glimpse of little Earle Willoughby (he bears
the name of his grandparents by their wish), who is his living
image, and then we should 'see what we should see.' But it seems
that the prevailing belief in his death must be true for the papers
now speak of it as a settled fact, and give him the most honorable
mention. Poor, poor Grace! how my very heart bleeds at thought of her
bereavement, and her beautiful, unselfish devotion to the cause of
'suffering, sad humanity.' Dear mother, please do not mention to her
what I have written about the child. She cannot bear to have little
Paul's name mentioned to her, and no wonder, poor, suffering, brave
heart! But, mother, darling, I mean to get at the bottom of the
slight mystery that enshrouds those people. If I discover anything
worth writing I will mention it in my next letter to you.

"Aunt Conway and Bruce join me in love to you all. My warmest love to
brother Willie and Grace, to both of whom I shall shortly write. Be
careful of your health, dearest mother, I beg, and write early and
often to your devoted daughter,

"LULU C. CONWAY."