last of them a twelvemonth ago last June, and no trace of her since then can be discovered. Our only conjecture is, that she must have gone on the Continent with some family, or elsewhere abroad. Papa has caused the lists of passports at the most frequented ports to be searched, but without success; but that we think little of, as she may have been entered as “the governess.” In short, we have searched for her in all ways, and the police have searched; and we can hear nothing of her. The uneasiness this gives me, Laura, I cannot express to you; and papa—in spite of your opinion of his heartlessness—is as much troubled as I am.”
“I never heard of such a thing,” exclaimed Laura, when her astonishment allowed her to speak. “Not find Clarice!”
In her eagerness she reiterated question upon question, and Jane told her all the particulars she had been able to glean. They were with difficulty received.
“Nothing at all has been heard of her since last June—that is, June twelvemonth?” repeated Laura. “But, Jane, you had letters from her subsequent to that?”
“I know I had; one: but it gave me no clue to where she was. It was the letter that came to us last New Year’s day, to wish us the bonne année."
“That was not the last letter you had from her?”
“Yes, it was. I wrote three letters to her subsequent to that, the letters that I afterwards found lying at the library, unclaimed. Do you recollect my telling you of a very singular dream I had, relating to Clarice—a disagreeable dream?”
“I recollect your not telling me,” replied Laura. “You said you had a dream that troubled you, but you would not tell it, fearing my ridicule.”
“Yes,” said Jane: “it was in March. The dream made me very uneasy, and I wrote, as I tell you, more than once to Clarice, begging tidings of her. They were the letters I speak of. Every phase of that dream is as vivid to my mind now as it was then. There are moments when the superstition is all too strong upon me that it only only shadowed forth the reality of Clarice’s fate. I seem to know that we shall never find her—in life.”
Laura would have liked to ridicule then. “Can’t you tell me the dream, Jane?”
“No” shuddered Jane, “I cannot tell it. Least of all to you.”
Laura became curious. “Why least of all to me?”
“Because—because—in the same dream, mixed up with Clarice, mixed up with the horror—but, I am foolish, I think,” broke off Jane. “I shall say no more about it, Laura.”
Laura did not care. She had been in the habit of laughing at Jane’s dreams, and she would laugh still. Jane Chesney had certainly had two or three most singular dreams, which had borne reference in a remarkable degree to subsequent realities of life. One of them had foreshadowed her mother’s death, and Jane had told it before the death took place. That the events following upon and bearing out the dreams were singular coincidences, can at least be said. And yet Jane Chesney was not by nature inclined to superstition, but the dreams had, in a degree, forced it upon her. She buried the feeling within herself, as we all like to bury those feelings which touch wholly on the imagination—that inner life within the life. But of all her dreams, never had she been visited by one bearing half the vivid horror, the horror of reality, as did this last one relating to her sister Clarice.
“It is very deceitful of you, Jane, to persist to my face that you have not heard from Clarice since the new year,” resumed Laura.
Jane raided her eyelids. “I have not heard from her since.”
“Where’s the use of saying it, Jane?” and Laura’s voice took a peevish tone, for she had as much dislike to being kept in the dark as had her father the earl. “You know quite well that you had at least one letter subsequent to that, and a most affectionate and loving one”
Jane was surprised. “I do not know what your head is running on, Laura, but I do know that I never had a line or syllable from Clarice, subsequent to that January letter.”
Laura took out her purse, a handsome porte-monnaie, the gift of Mr. Carlton, and extracted from it a small piece of paper that had once formed part of a letter.
“Look there, Jane. You would know Clarice’s writing, is that hers or not?” I put it in my purse to-day to bring to you.”
“Oh yes, it is Clarice’s writing,” said Jane the instant it was in her hands. It was the upper part of the first page, where the writing commenced, and was dated from London on the 28th of the previous February. It began as follows:—
“My dearest, I am about to make a proposal to you, and———"
Then the paper was torn. On the reverse side was the conclusion of the note, which had apparently been a short one.
"———without delay. Ever your own, Clarice.”
Jane Chesney pondered over the words,