Chapter XXVI: Lulu to Her Mother

"Tis strange but true; for truth is always strange,
Stranger than fiction." --BYRON.

"LONDON, ENG., March 20th, 1874.

"I promised to write you, dear mother if I should discover anything
of interest relating to the little child of whom I wrote you in the
autumn; and thanks to dear Bruce (who pretended not to take any
interest in the matter at all) I have something to write you which,
if nothing more comes of it, is certainly one of the strangest
coincidences that ever happened. Mrs. Conway and Bruce think it can
be only a coincidence, but my hopeful heart whispers that it may be
more. But I will tell you of it, mother dearest, and leave you to
judge for yourself.

"In the first place, then, my dear Bruce used only to be amused at
my fondness for and interest in the child that bore such marked
resemblance to two of my friends, though he could not but admit the
likeness himself. But after he became convinced, as I was, that there
was some mystery or some secret about the little one's parentage,
he, quite unknown to me (not wishing to arouse hopes that might be
disappointed in the end), set about making inquiries in a quiet and
cautious manner, which brought to light the facts I am about to
relate.

"I suppose it is hardly necessary I should remind you, mother, that
the Englishwoman, Mrs. Moreland, who stole little Paul Winans from
the hotel in Washington, D. C., and was traced to the steamer that
left for England, told the servant-girl there that she had buried
her husband in New York, as also a little girl and boy one year old,
and that he was the last child of five. You will also remember that
the girl, Annie Grady, and other waiters in the hotel thought that
Mrs. Moreland was not quite right in her mind--that is to say, she
was on the verge of insanity, and it was supposed that, under some
hallucination that the child was her own, she kidnapped little Paul,
and, with a lunatic's proverbial cunning, succeeded in getting away
with him.

"Now, mother, this is what Bruce has discovered. First, that Sir
Robert and Lady Marguerite Willoughby never had but one child, a fair
and gentle young daughter, who mortally offended them by eloping with
and marrying her drawing-master, a young man with the beauty of a
Greek god and the humble station and sheer poverty which is too often
the birthright of such beauty. For this offense she was disinherited
and exiled forever from the presence of her haughty patrician father.
It is said that the gentle mother would gladly have forgiven the
erring child and made the best of the _mesalliance_, but Sir Robert's
will being law, she had no choice but to abide by it. Secondly,
that the disinherited daughter and her poor and handsome husband
led a precarious existence in London for ten years, during which
time four children were successively born to them and died; all this
time the cruel parents of the willful daughter refusing her appeal
for forgiveness. At the death of the last child the unfortunate but
devoted pair concluded to try their fortune in America, whither
they accordingly went, settling in New York. There another child
was born to them, and fortune, long unpropitious, began to smile
on the loving pair, when the sudden death of the husband left the
timid young mother a widow and a stranger, with a fatherless child.
The shock nearly unsettled her reason, and she waited only for the
burial of her husband before she started for England with her baby,
and on reaching here, presented herself, homeless, friendless, almost
destitute, before her cruel parents, with an ill and fretful babe in
her arms. They would have been inhuman to have turned her away. She
was taken back to their home and hearts, but too late, for she was
barely sane enough to give an incoherent account of her husband's
death in America before her melancholy madness reached such a violent
stage that they were compelled to remove her to a lunatic asylum,
where she still remains, a hopeless maniac.

"The child, whose dark beauty and lack of resemblance to his mother's
family they attributed to a perfect likeness of its deceased father,
they received into their home and hearts, and formally adopted as
their own, since they two, being really the last of his race, this
child was the only one left to perpetuate the name and title of the
proud Willoughbys. Remorse for the part they acted to their unhappy
daughter leads them to preserve entire silence as to her and the
sad story I have been telling you. All this Bruce learned from one
who is intimate with the family, and, indeed, the story is well
known in London, though they never mention it to strangers. But her
parents, of course, knowing of her life while in New York, have not
the slightest doubt of the little boy being their grandchild, the son
of their daughter, Christine, and her husband, Earle Moreland. You
will remember, mother, that the kidnapper of Grace's little son was
registered at the Washington hotel as Mrs. Earle Moreland. I think
we only need to prove that Mrs. Moreland's child died in New York
to claim this little child of Grace. But I leave you to draw all
inferences, dear mother, and I know that you will agree with me that
there is more than coincidence in the case.

"All that I have told you Bruce discovered before we went to Italy.
Now that we have returned he intends to push the matter further and
try to get at the truth of the whole affair. I do not yet know what
steps he will take in the matter, but pray with me, my own beloved
mother, that 'the truth may be made manifest,' and that dear, patient
Grace may have her child restored to her, for I feel certain that
this darling little boy, of whom we are all so fond, is her own
child. And, oh! what a pleasure it will be to me to see him restored
to her by any instrumentality of mine.

"Still I think it best to keep her in ignorance of all this yet
awhile; for uncertainty and suspense on this subject now would be,
I know, more than she could bear; and, besides, we cannot yet know
what the end may be. I will send you further tidings as soon as we
have any. You can tell brother Willie of it all. His clear, prudent
judgment may be of use to us, but he is not to let Grace know.

"I am almost counting the days, mother, between this and the happy
day that shall bring me to your dear, loving arms again! I miss you
_so_ much, and brother Willie, and dear Gracie, too.

"I had intended to tell you of my pleasant time at Lady T----'s
reception, my dining at the embassy, and many other interesting
things, which I will have to postpone until my next, as my husband is
now waiting to take me for a drive, and I, as of old, dear mother, am
so fond of driving. How I used to like dear Grace's little phaeton!

"Bruce and Aunt Conway both join me in love to all, and both are
well, but beginning, I believe, like myself, to feel a little
homesick.

"My warmest love to dear Gracie and my darling brother Willie, and,
mother, dear, do, do, all of you, take care of your health, and don't
kill yourselves in that awful Memphis, and do not fail to write at
earliest convenience to your

"Devoted daughter,

"LULU C. CONWAY."