The Tracy diamonds

by Mary Jane Holmes

“Probably a poor relation,” came into Craig’s mind, and the niece was dismissed from it. The daughter, however, occupied a good share of his thoughts as the day wore on, and moving his seat from the north piazza to the south, he watched the settling of the west wing, which the Tracys were to occupy, with a good deal of interest. Once, in passing him, Mark stopped and said: “You would suppose the queen of England was coming instead of a woman with nothing to recommend her but money, or family, which sometimes counts more than money.”

He spoke a little bitterly, and Craig wondered if he were thinking of his own tarnished heritage. If it is possible for the future to turn backward and touch those whom its events are to influence, it would seem as if it had done so with Craig and Mark. Both were exceedingly restless that afternoon, and their restlessness manifested itself differently. Mark went to the cemetery,—a very unusual thing for him,—and stood by ’Tina’s grave and looked at the headstone, with only “Christina Dalton” upon it, and for a few moments rebelled against the fate which had linked him with the dead woman at his feet. He had heard the whole story of the tragedy; not one particular had been omitted in the telling of it to him, and now, as he went over it in imagination, he took a different view of it from what he had ever done before. Any thing like heredity had never troubled him, the relationship was so remote. But the possibility came to him now, and he said to himself: “Her blood is in my veins,—strongly diluted,—but it is there, and under provocation might work me harm if I yielded to it. But I will not. I’ll be a man for a’ that. She was only my great-grandmother, or great-great-grandmother, which was it? Poor ’Tina. Perhaps she was not guilty. She said she was not, except for liking another man better than her husband. Other women have done that.”

The year before he had planted a white rose at Mr. Dalton’s grave. It was the running species, and one long arm had reached out and twined itself around ’Tina’s headstone, on the top of which was a half opened rose nestled among a quantity of leaves. Mark was fond of flowers, and cut the rose carefully from its stalk, intending to put it in the office.

“I guess there’s nothing of ’Tina about it,” he said, as he picked a few leaves and weeds from the grass on her grave, examined the stone to see if it were secure, and then returned to the hotel.

Craig had been differently employed. He always made some changes in his toilet before supper, and this afternoon he took a little more pains with it than usual, although it was not likely that he would see the ladies that night. As his mother was gone, he took his supper alone, and with his quick eye saw that two or three pieces of china and glass were missing. He might not have given it a second thought if he had not heard Mr. Taylor telling a boarder that the rooms for Miss Tracy were in apple pie order, and the table sot for supper in the saloon, with the best linen and china and silver. The missing articles were accounted for. They were adorning the table in the saloon. Boston had gone down in the scale, and New York was in the ascendant.

“I don’t object,” he thought, “so long as she leaves us a china tea cup. I should not like those thick things I see on some of the tables.”

After his supper he went round to the west piazza, and, walking up and down, glanced into the room where the table was laid for three, and looked very inviting with its snowy linen, china and glass. He recognized the cream jug and sugar bowl which had done duty for his mother and himself, and was glad they were there. It seemed right and proper that the Tracys, as new-comers, should take the precedence. He was getting quite interested in them, and when he saw there were no flowers on the table he asked Sarah, the house-maid, if she had forgotten them.

“We hain’t any but flag lilies, and I didn’t know as they’d be pretty. I’ll pick some if you say so,” she said.

He knew she meant the fleurs-de-lis, of which he had seen great clumps from his window. They were blue,—his color,—and he followed Sarah to the garden, where she gathered a large bunch of the lilies together with some young ferns growing near them.

“They do look pretty,” she said, admiring the effect, as she placed them in the centre of the table. “Be you acquainted with the ladies?”