The Tracy diamonds

by Mary Jane Holmes

“Only eleven, I thought it must be midnight,” he said, going to the window and looking out into the night.

The rain was over, the stars were coming out, and the moon was scudding between the few misty clouds still hovering in the sky. From below he caught the odor of a cigar and heard a man’s tread on the piazza. It was Mark walking up and down as if he, too, were restless and could not sleep. The sight of him brought back the story heard from Uncle Zacheus that morning, and while recalling its details Craig, who had gone back to bed, fell asleep and dreamed that ’Tina came to him in her white dress and blue ribbons, with the gold beads around her neck, which Mr. Taylor had said she wore on the morning when she left home for the prison. She had a sweet, innocent face for which many a man would peril his life, Craig thought, as he awoke with a start to hear a robin singing outside his window and to see a sunbeam on the wall above his head. It was nearly six o’clock,—later than he usually slept,—for he was an early riser. Dressing himself, he went to the dining-room and breakfasted alone. Everything was quiet in the west wing and he saw no signs of the Tracys, except a big Saratoga trunk in the hall waiting to be taken upstairs, and a smart-looking maid, in white cap and apron, carrying a tray from the kitchen with dishes upon it. “One of the ladies breakfasts in her room,—Mrs. Tracy, probably,” he thought, as he sauntered into the office and turned the leaves of the register, finding the names: “Mrs. Freeman A. Tracy, New York city; Miss Helen A. Tracy, New York city; Miss Alice Tracy, Rocky Point, Mass.”

The handwriting was very plain and Craig studied it for a moment, while Uncle Zacheus, who was present and still under the spell of Helen’s eyes and smiles, said to him, “Writes a good fist; plain as copper-plate, and she’s a daisy, too, but not up to t’other one. Wait till you see her.”

“What do you mean?” Craig asked. “Which is ‘t’other one,’ and which is the daisy?”

“Why, t’other one is—t’other one, and the daisy’s gone down to the river with Jeff after pond lilies,” Uncle Zach replied.

“Gone to the river with Jeff?” Craig repeated, and Uncle Zach answered, “Yes, sir. She was up with the sun. Wrote the names; hers is the last one; and then went off with Jeff, holdin’ up her white skirts and showin’ her trim boots and ankles just like what Dot’s was once when she was slimmer.”

Craig did not ask any more about the daisy. He felt sure it was Alice, the cousin, from Rocky Point, of which place he had never heard. He was not as much interested in her as he was in the ‘t’other one,’ who occupied more of his thoughts than he would like to confess. He remembered his prejudice against her as a heartless coquette, and his declining to call upon her when asked to do so in Saratoga. But she was here in the same house with him and it was incumbent upon him as a gentleman to treat her with some attention. She might not be as bad as she was painted; at all events, he would like to see her, and he had found himself taking more pains than usual with his toilet. He was always faultlessly neat in his person and attire, especially in the matter of collars and cuffs, and this morning he had tried and discarded two or three pairs, and as many neckties, before he was satisfied that his tout-ensemble was all that could be expected in a country tavern. He had looked for Jeff to give an extra polish to his shoes, but not finding him, had put on a pair of tans, and felt himself quite au fait and ready to cope with the young lady who, rumor said, had lured so many men to her feet only to be refused. He had no intention of following their example. He expected to amuse himself and be relieved from the ennui which was beginning to affect him in the quiet place.

As he was leaving the office the maid came in to drop a postal in the box. She was a trim little black-eyed French girl, who, in her bright plaid dress, high-heeled slippers and red stockings, looked very pretty and picturesque.

“Good mornin’, Miss—er—What is your name,” was Uncle Zacheus’ salutation.

“Celine, monsieur,” was the girl’s reply.