Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/670

 she would not disobey him to the length of setting afloat a search in defiance of his expressed command that Clarice should be “let alone until she came to her senses,” Jane was beginning to grow seriously uneasy respecting her wandering sister. It seemed very improbable that Clarice should have remained in ignorance of the change in their position; why, then, did she not communicate with them?

Colonel Marden’s residence in London, a house he had taken for the season, was in one of the terraces near Hyde Park; and Mrs. Marden and Jane were soon driven to it. A few minutes of suspense for Jane, and Mrs. Marden, accompanied by a young lady, came into the drawing-room.

“This is Miss Jones, Lady Jane.”

With a beating heart—with lips that were turning to whiteness in the agitation of expectancy, Jane turned. Turned to behold—disappointment,

It was a very pretty, lady-like young woman, but it was not Clarice Chesney. A few moments elapsed before Jane recovered her calmness.

“I beg your pardon for troubling you, Mrs. Marden,” she said then; “but this is not my friend. I have lost sight of a young lady who went out as governess,” she added, by way of a word of explanation to Miss Jones, in the innate good breeding that never left her, “and I was wondering whether I might find her in you. I wish it had been so.”

The subject was at an end. Poor Jane could not recover herself. She remained as one whose senses are lost.

“You are disappointed, Lady Jane!” exclaimed Mrs. Marden as they took their places in the carriage to be driven to the concert.

“I acknowledge that I am,” was the low-breathed answer.

“You will forget it in the treat that is in store for you,” said Mrs. Marden.

And in truth if musical strains in their greatest perfection, their sweetest harmony, can lure a heart away from its care, it was the music they were about to hear that day. The concert was given by that great master of the harp, Frederick Chatterton; and when they entered nearly every seat was occupied, every nook and corner crammed. One of the most distinguished audiences ever collected within walls had assembled; for harp music, such as that, is not common music,

And Jane was beguiled out of her care. As she listened to the brilliant playing, the finished touch, tho sweet tones elicited from the instrument, she forgot even Clarice. Never had she heard music like unto it. The “Remembranza d’ Italia,” the “Reminiscences of Bellini,” melted Jane to tears, while the finale from “La Felia” half took her breath away. For ordinary music Jane did not care; but music such as this wrought an effect on her that did not pass easily.

“Lucy must learn the harp; Lucy must learn the harp!” were the first words she ejaculated.

“What did you say?” asked Mrs. Marden.

“I—I believe I was unconscious that I spoke aloud. I should like my little sister to learn to play on this instrument.”

“The most graceful instrument there is, and I think the sweetest,” said Mrs. Marden warmly. “I told you you would have a treat.”

“Oh, I cannot tell you what it is to me!” was Jane’s answer. Very rarely indeed was she moved to express herself so eloquently on any subject; but poor Jane had not been in the way of hearing much good music; never such as this.

As they were going out, pressing their way along with the throng, they encountered Miss Lethwait, who was there with her pupils. Jane addressed her, speaking more impulsively than was her wont.

“Do you teach the harp, Miss Lethwait?”

“I could teach it, madam,” replied Miss Lethwait, after a momentary pause. “I learnt it, but have been out of practice for some years.”

“Take my advice, Lady Jane,” whispered Mrs. Marden, when Miss Lethwait was beyond hearing. “If you are thinking of your sister, as I conclude, have her taught by the master you have just heard. It will be money well laid out.”

“I believe you are right,” answered Jane.

She shook hands with Mrs. Marden outside, and proceeded home, alone and on foot. It was not far, once the crossing at the Oxford Circus was accomplished. Those street crossings were the worst interludes as yet in Jane’s London life. As she went on, her brain was busy with many thoughts and themes. Miss Lethwait, the coveted governess for Lucy; the disappointment she had met with in Miss Jones; the doubt whether she should not venture to urge on her father the necessity there seemed to be of their seeking out Clarice: all were floating together in her mind, presenting a thousand phases, as thought will do when the brain is troubled. And mixed up with them in the most incongruous manner were those enchanting harp melodies just heard, the strains of which were yet fresh on Jane Chesney’s ears.

stood before the ornamented summer grate of his handsome drawing-room.