Lady Lancaster settled her gold-bowed spectacles on her long Roman
nose, and fixed a keen, penetrating stare on the troubled face of her
housekeeper.
"Whose child is it, and what is it all about, anyhow?" she sputtered,
vaguely.
"It's my brother-in-law's child, and he's dead away off in New York
somewhere, and the child's left to me--his penniless, friendless orphan
child, left to me by the dead; and how could I refuse the charge, my
lady?" inquired Mrs. West, reproachfully. "I should think the dead
would come from his grave, away off yonder in America, to haunt me if I
didn't do his bidding," cried she, glancing behind her with something
like a shudder of superstitious fear.
"I didn't know you were simpleton enough to believe in ghosts, West,"
sniffed my lady, contemptuously. "And I didn't know you ever had a
brother-in-law, either. Where has he been all these years?"
"If you will read this letter, Lady Lancaster, you will find out
in fewer words than I can tell you," said Mrs. West, respectfully
presenting her letter, which all this time she had been holding open in
her hand.
My lady took the black-edged sheet into the grasp of her thin, bony
hand, and ran her keen eyes down the written page.
"DEAR SISTER-IN-LAW"--it ran--"I know you've wondered many a time
since I caught the gold fever and ran away to California, twenty
years ago, what's become of the willful lad that you and John
couldn't manage; although you tried so hard and so faithfully. I
always meant to write to you some day, but I put it off from time to
time in my hard, busy life, until now it's almost too late, and I
seem to be writing to you from the borders of that other world where
I've somehow heard my brother John went before me, and where I'm
hastening now. For I'm dying, sister-in-law, and I'm quite sure that
I shall be dead before this comes to your hand. Well, I've had ups
and downs in this life, sister Lucy--good luck and ill luck--and now
I'm dying I have one great care upon my mind. I'm leaving my little
girl, my pretty Leonora--named so for her mother, who died when her
baby was born--all alone in the cold, hard world. She is friendless,
for we've led such a roving life once she was born that we have made
no friends to aid us now in our extremity. Dear sister-in-law, you
were always a good woman. You tried to do your duty by the wayward
orphan boy who has so poorly repaid your care. Will you be kinder
still? Will you come to America and take my child for your own? Will
you give her a mother's love and care? Remember, she is friendless
and forsaken in the world, without a living relative. What would
become of her if you refused my dying prayer? I inclose a card with
our New York address upon it. She will wait there after I am dead
until you come for her. I feel sure that you will come; you will not
disregard my dying wish and request. Forgive me all my ingratitude
and thoughtlessness, sister Lucy, and be a mother to my darling
little Leo when I am no more.
"Your dying brother,
"RICHARD WEST."
The letter rustled in Lady Lancaster's nervous grasp. She looked up
thoughtfully at the patient, waiting woman.
"I could not refuse such a prayer as that, could I, my lady?" she
asked, wistfully. "You see, he was my husband's only brother--poor,
handsome, willful Dick. His parents were both dead, and he had only me
and John, my husband. He was restless and ambitious. He ran away and
left a letter that he should go to California and seek his fortune.
From that day to this, never a word has been heard of Dick. And now
he's dead--not so old, either; only in the prime of life--and he's left
me his little girl. She will be a trouble, I know. I must give up my
quiet, peaceful home here and make a new home for the child somewhere.
But I can not refuse. I dare not, for John's and Dick's sake. I must
go to America and get the child. I can not do less than he asked me.
He was always restless, poor Dick. He could not stay in his grave if I
refused his dying prayer."