"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."
