"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."
