LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 909, 24 May 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE CHARM. ( Continued.) 1 Good night, Mr Jermyn,’ and into his open palm there came a little light, cold touch, as if a snowflake had fallen at his invitation. ‘ She does not care for me, she never did, he thought sadly as he went forth into the misty night. £ And where she goes my heart will always follow. But I k ow how it will be ; one of those confoundedly good looking Anthonys will get her. Ah, there’s a fate in it—there’s a fate in it!’ Chapter 111. Teresita had been in her servitude a month. Brief as the time was, it had changed her a good deal. Shy, sensivitive, aud proud, it was a natural consequence that she should suffer in her present position, for Jermyn hail prophesied with true instinct of the treatment she would find in the Anthony family. They were not naturally unkind, but worldly and inconsiderate. Just at first, Mrs Anthony and her elder daughters seemed to remember who and what Miss Iheresc Van Dest was, and to accord her consideration ; but that did not last a week, and she was allowed to sink into the exact position occupied by former governesses. As to William Jermyn himself, Teresita had not seen him since she entered upon her new life. Whether he were one of the evening guests, whose tones reached her faintly now and then in her distant room, she did not know, but if so he had eiven her no sign of his presence ; and what wonder that she should remember with some bitterness all he had said to her the night before she left her old home. He had seemed then so kind, so sorry ; he had held her hand in fare-well so warmly, repeating the words over and over again; ‘Bemember, remember, Teresita, I shall come to see you very soon. She did remember. With painful pertinacity too, her mind went back to that other evening when he had appeared so disconcerted at hearing she was going out, to—as he expressed it -■ a place of service. W ell, it was little better. She was at the beck and call of the unruly children ; she was put down as inferior by Miss Belle Anthony. But he never came to see whether it was so or not; he appeared to have forgotten that she existed. Pride was the beseiting sin of the Van Dest family ; perhaps she and Louise had fatally wounded him by doing what they had done, and he had thrown them up, A whole month ? Four weeks of loneliness amid strangers ! It was very hard upon this de'icate girl, who had lived so happy a home life. But it was better to be utterly alone in her* own room, after her duties were over, than to be summoned, as she had been once or twice, to play for the children down stairs. There, visitors of the family had popped in, and Teresita had felt painfully that she had no longer any place but that of an alien. She was not introduced to people ; nobody seemed to consider her at all. One evening, at the end of these four weeks, she was sitting in her chamber, thinking of all this, when there came one of the summonses she dreaded. The youngest child, a girl of ten, ran in, loud and common. ‘ Miss Van, you are to come down and play to us. We want to dance.’ Miss Van—it was the way in which the young ones chose to contract her name knitted her brow and paused. * Who, is there, Julia? ‘ Nobody; only ourselves. Belle and Lizzie want to try a new figure with us, and you are to play.” She went down ; she might not refuse. It was certainly a relief to find the drawing room free of guests, and she fervently hoped it would remain so. But while Miss Belle was whirling about to her playing, there came a ring at the door bell which stayed the whirling feet, and before Teresita could find time to excuse herself and escape, the dreaded visitors wese already in the room. But she hoped, by remaining quiet in the remote alcove where the piano stood, that she should evade notice. She sat on, leaning her head upon her hand; the hum and buzz of conversation reaching her ear. Then she heard the entrance of ano her guests, and then the voice of Miss Belle.

‘ Why, Mr Jermyn, what a stranger you are ! ’ . ,

Teresita started a little; and the next thing she heard was Jermyn’s reply. ‘ Yes, I have been ill. I have scarcely been out of the house, until to-day, for a month.’ * And whfit has been the matter with you ? 1 asked Mrs Anthony. ‘ A sort of low fever, 1 believe. Nothing dangerous, but the doctor kept me quiet, lest it should go on to danger.’ Teresita, looking up from her obscure come I’, 1 ’, felt a thrill of thanksgiving and pain at one and the same time. She could see him as she sat; could see how pale and thin he looked; and only herself knew how her heart beat, how it went out to him. ‘Dancing?—no, thank you, Miss Belle; not to-night,’ Teresita next heard him say in answer to the young lady. *To tell you the truth, I was hardly up to coming out tonight, but I wanted tq see my cousin. She is with you, I believe ? ’

‘ Your cousin ? ’ *My cousin; Miss Therese Van Dest.’ ‘ But she is not your cousin V ‘ Indeed she is. My name, though perhaps you may not know, is Van Dest Jermyn. And—why, there she sits !’ he broke oil. ‘ Teresita!’

Looking up she saw a glowing face and an outstretched hand coming toward her; and then there was a confused greeting. The Anthonys were thoroughly surprised ; perhaps not altogether pleased. Mr Jermyn, a rising man, was one of their most welcome

visitors ; there appeared to be a sort of presumption in a governess claiming cousinship with him.

‘ We had not an idea of it,’ spoke Miss Belle, haughtily. She turned her attention, as did Mrs Anthony, to the other guests, more of whom came in, leaving Mr Jermyn a few moments in the remote alcove.

So, once more William Jermyn found himself alone with Teresita. Looking in her face he saw what she had suffered. It was pale and weary and sad. The blithe youth fulness was already fading swiftly and surely. A pang of fear smote him, for he knew something of the delicacy of her constitution He knew, too, how sorrow and pining had killed more than one Van Dest. And, thinking of this, he forgot Louise’s warning, forgot that ‘No,’ of Teresita’s, forgot every uncertainty, and, and in afew vehement words, whispered out the tale of his passion. For a momed he was sure that she loved him ; for into her face flushed a light and a bloom that transformed it to radiance . but in the next moment it was gone, and the answer was discontent and discouraging. ‘No, no. You must not think of it. It cannot be.’

* But why ? ’ he asked. She did not say why. She only remained cold as a statue in answer to all his impassioned pleading; reiterating again the IN o

no. With a heavy heart he turned to leave her: he had seen Mrs Anthony glance towards them once or twice. ‘ Is this irrevocable, Teresita? ’ ‘ Entirely irrevocable.’ ‘Good-bye, then, Teresita,’ he said sadly. She put out her hand, and an expression he could not fathom came into her face. She hesitated a moment, then faltered a little and became a little paler. * Will you—is it selfish in me to ask you to be my cousin just the same —to come and see me now and then ? ’ she asked. ‘ I have so few friends, yon know, Mr Jermyn, The tears dimmed his eyes at the pathos of her tone. , , ‘ Yes, yes, I will come, Teresita. And with this promise, and a clasp of the hand, he left her. . He was true to his promise. He told Mrs Anthony that he must, with her permission, be allowed to call occasionally on his cousin, who had no other relative to do so—and he was hut a distant one. Mrs Anthony graciously acceded afeer a moment’s hesitation ; and begged his pardon for putting a question. ‘ May I venture to ask if you are engaged to your cousin, Mr Jermyn? ’ < I am not. So far as I know, I never shall be.’ So he called now and then. Therese was always pleased to see him, always cordial in a cousinly way ; but there it ended. One jealous fear began to torment the young barrister—that she was falling in love with George Anthony, and he with her. ‘That’s what will be the end of it,’ he thought with anguish^

‘Therese, you look just as though you were pining yourself to death I ’ The impulsive words broke from Miss Van Desk This was the first time she had come to see Therese, though eight months had elapsed since they quitted their home. The family in which I ouise lived (as chaperon and companion, more than as governess, to one young lady) had taken her away with them travelling, and she had but now returned, ‘ I am very well,’ said Therese. »But I say you are not well. Are these Anthonys exacting—inconsiderate ? ’ ‘ Not at all. At least, not more so than other people would be, Louise.’ Louise looked at her keenly. * I have heard a rumour, Therese—that you are in love.’

‘ln love ! Who told you that ? ’ ‘ William Jermjn. I met him this morning as I came here. He says that one of the young Anthonys -George, I think—is only waitin'? for you to say “ Yes,” to his suit.’ A stream" of colour made Therese’s cheeks crimson her eyes danced a little as of old. She knew very well by this time what Mr Jermyn thought about 1 > corge Anthony ; but she had never sought to undeceive him. What could it be to Mr Jermyn ?

‘Mr Jermyn is very foolish, Louise ; quite mistaken. G eorge Anthony is nothing to me.’ ‘He wanted you himself, you know, Therese ’ ‘ Who did ? ’ ‘ William Jermyn.’ ‘ Lid he ! He is very absurd. ’ »I know you always disliked him. But what is it that is the mat'er with you, Therese ? Y our cheeks are pale, your eyes weary. lam sure you are pining.’ ‘ Perhaps I am,’ carelessly answered Therese. Louise, direct, unimaginative, and full of that active desire which such persons have to right things, was now entirely puzzled. Greatly impatient of what seemed to her this useless pining, she began to_ scold Theiese heartily, but with no unkind intent. She was in the full tide of a very earnest appeal, when Teresita gave a sudden little terrified cry, which made her break off. ‘ What is the matter, Therese ? ’ <My amulet, my amulet! Just look, Louise! ’ Therese, listening (or not listening) to her sister’s scolding, had been leaning from the open window. Her chain of beads, hanging down, had caught in the hinge of the large blind, and became fixed there. She could neither disengage it nor stir it. Louise, running to see what was the matter, saw her pulling and tugging—but all with tender gentleness—and Louise was quite irate. ‘ Such child’s play, Therese ! To make a ory over that thing. I’m sure you must have torn 5 our hand,’ ‘ It is my charm, Louise,’ * Charm ! What charm has it had for yon ? What good has it ever brought you ? Here, take your fingers away child, while I disengage it.’ With no very gentle hand she gave the blind a wrench, There was a slight crash, and—the amulet was broken. ‘ Oh, Louise, Louise, what have you done ? ’ ‘ Yes, I see. I am very sorry ; 1 would not have done it willingly. But don’t be a baby, Therese ! Wo can get it mended, I daresay, 1 Louise, really sorry, but ashamed to manifest her sorrow, took refuge in crossness In this spirit she went back to her chair ; while Therese, through foolish, blinding tears, was regarding the ruin of her treasure. It was hopelessly crushed, though still retaining its form ; but at a touch cf her hand it fell apart, and there rattled out —what was it ?

Not a shrunk and withered kernel, as they had sometimes opined that the nut contained; not the little dry hones of an inner shell Did a withered kernel ever take such shape as this ? did dry bones ever wear such prac tical colour and resemblance ? Here in hei hand lay a tiny key, a quaintly-fashione--key, which this mysterious relic disclosed, the gilding only slightly dimmed by its long seclusion, folded tightly across the rim was a tarnished paper. Unrolling it, Thorese glanced at her sister. Miss Van Dest was gazing with open eyes, astonished for once m her life. But she did not quit her seat. Therese read :

‘ This is the key to my Indian escritoire, wherein I have buried the great Freer wrongdoing. Justice shall find its own again.” ‘ What can this mean, Louise ?’ Forgetful now of the destruction of her treasure, Therese went over to her sister, holding out the broken amulet, the key, and the scrap of paper. Miss Van Dest turned a little pale as she took them into her own hands. Was a possible solution striking her ? ‘ Whose writing is this, Louise ? ’ ‘ Aunt Joan’s,’ answered Louise, briefly. ‘Yes, 1 was nearly sure of it—but it is very cramped. What can it all mean ? And what does she mean by her Indian escritoire ? ’ Louise waited a moment, thinking ; then spoke rather slowly and thoughtfully. ‘ 1 believe she must mean that old piece of carved word which we children used to call her Indian idol. I remember how she used to keep it at the head of her bed, and what store she set by it.’ ‘ That old black thing ! I used to call it a bogey.’ ‘ That old black thing—yes.’

‘But that could not turn out to be an escritoire, Louise. How could it ? I dare say this is only one of poor Aunt Joan’s delusions.’

Louise Van Dest did not reply. Bhe still sat poring over that slip of paper, and turning the little key over and over in her hand. By and by she looked up. ‘ Therese, do you think you could get leave to go out with me ? ’

‘ What—now ? ’ ‘ Now. I should like to see the end of this—whether the key has anything to do with that black idol or not. We will go to the old house together, and ascertain —if Mrs Anthony will spare you.’ Mrs Anthony, after saying something about the unreasonableness of her governess wanting to absent herself in study hours, and that she supposed it was only to buy a new bonnet, or some nonsense of that kind, gave an unwilling consent; and the two sisters went forth togetherThe old mansion was just as they left it. Its new inheritor had been ill with a long illness, and had not yet come to take possession. The person in charge of it was the same elderly woman who had been the sole attendant on the Miss Van Dests after their fallen fortunes.

She received them with grateful tears; the unexpected sight of them was good for her, she said. They told her had happened, and went with her in search of the Indian idol.

It was standing where it always had stood —atop of the canopy of poor Aunt Joan’s bed. Neither bed nor room had been occupied since Joan left it. The woman stood upon a chair, took down the idol, dusted it, and handed it to the young ladies. It was shaped somewhat like a man’s head—which had given rise to the children naming it an Indian idol—and was beautifully carved. Louise handled it attentively. ‘Yes—do you see - here is a small keyhole. The thing opens in the middle. Therese. we must take a street cab, and carry it to Mr Drake’s.’

‘ Therese was surprised, * But I should like to open it now. ’ * I daresay you would ! You are just a child and nothing better. This thing must be opened in the presence of people in authority. How do we know what it may contain.

‘ Do you know, Louise ? ’ ‘ No ; but I fancy I can guess.’ Mr Drake was the family lawyer. They drove to his office with the Indian idol, and found him at home. He listened to the brief explanation Louise gave him of their presence, and then, with an imperturbable face, took the Indian idol into his hands and examined it.

‘ I have a fancy that the lost will may be in this,’ said Louise.

‘ Will you give me the key, Miss Van Dest ?’

The key fitted perfectly in the half-con-cealed lock, which Mr Drake found at once. A creak, a snap, and back upon its hinges dew the half of the little dark relic, and revealed a very curious escritoire, like a small writing desk, dlled with old papers. Some of them were tied into packets with pink or blue ribbon ; they related no doubt to the romance and disappointment which poor Miss Joan had gone through in early life. But these packages fMr Drake pushed aside, and drew forth a folded paper, fresher looking than the rest—a long, folded paper, and a black covered book—-evidently a diary. He openedjthe paper. Then his countenance slightly changed; something like a light came into the cool face. But he read it quite through, and, without speaking a word, proceeded to examine the diary. The light in his face became more perceptible, at last amounting to a glow, as he turned to the two young ladies and spoke. ‘Miss Van Dest, you are right. Here is the latest will your grandfather made, and here is the secret of its hiding, in your Aunt Joan’s diary. Madness, like murder, is prone to confessions. for no reason but to write it down for her own pleasure, she has recorded in her diary the reason for this hiding. She seems to have been vexed that her brother (your grandfather) should have made a will in his daughter’s favour after her disobedience : she did not think it right, she says, that Mr Van Dest’s children (yourselves) should inherit the Freer property. Poor thing! ’ ‘ But—is the will really right, Mr Drake ? Will it restore to us our own ? ’ ‘Entirely.’ * People will not doubt the will ? ’

Mr Drake smiled. ‘lf anyone were inclined to doubt this will’s authenticity, the signature of Jacob Wright old Jacob, you remember, who was your grandfather’s secretary—would prove it to be genuine beyond any question. There was never, 1 believe, such another chirography as old Jacob’s And now, young ladies. I heartily congratulate you. You can go back to your own house to morrow.’

‘ There’s Mr Ford,’ said Louise. ‘ Mr Ford has no more claim ojj, the. house

or p.operty now than I have,’ spoke the lawyer. ‘He will know that. I shall write M him to-day.’ But the congratulations and the business talk that followed were heard as in a far-ofi' dream by Therese. Poor little Teresita—dear li'tle Teresita—the dark clouds were clearing out of the sky for her at last.

They returned to the home to spend the rest of the day. As Louise observed, there was so much to be thought of and said, connected with this wonderful change. Louise wanted to write a note or two ; and Mr Drake placed his office boy at their disposal to convey the notes to their destination. One was to Mrs Anthony, saying Therese could not return to her until the evening, and then it would be far a few days only, while the lady suited herself w th another governess. The other was to ask William Jermyn to come down. ‘ He will advise us about everything, you know, Therese, she said. ‘ I must consult with him,’ Therese answered nothing. Instead of that, she began to hum a careless song. ‘ I suppose there will be no impediment now to George Anthony’s suit, Therese,’ said Mr Jermyn, after his amazement had subsided, and Miss Van Dest had departed from the room in search of some papers. ‘ For shame, sir ! ’ Therese answered. And to his utter consternation, she hurst into a passionate Hood of tears. ‘ Teresita ! dear Teresita! What have I said ? Don’t you like George Anthony ? ’

‘ I hate him knows it.’

You know I do. He

What with the words, the tears, and what with a half-reproachful glance from Teresita’s eyes, Mr William Jermyn came to his senses. Pie folded his arms round her and let her sob out her grief upon his breast. ‘ But what was the season that you treated me so coldly, and rejected me, Teresita ? ’ ‘ Would I hamper you by marrying you upon your little bit of an income ? It would have kept you down for life. You once said, yourself, a long while ago-I heard you say it, William—that a poor briefless barrister to marry early was just ruin.’ ‘ What an idiot 1 was ! ’

‘ No, you were not, sir. But things have altered now ; aud I—l1 —I shan’t be able to count all my money.’ ‘ Your money —there it is ! I fear 1 ought not to aspire to you now.’ ‘ Oh, you can take Louise instead if you like.’ Louise chanced to come in at the moment, and stood transfixed with amazement. Mr Jermyn was kissing her sister. ‘ Well, I’m sure ! ’ she cried. ‘Therese ! ’ ‘ She is mine now, Louise. Teresita ! my Teresita ! ’ * And I hope you will never call in ques tion my superstitions again, either of yon,’ cried Teresita, saucily, blushing and smiling and escaping to a distance. ‘ Aunt Joan’s amulet contained a charm after all. But for that ’

‘ But for that I might have missed my Teresita,’ he interrupted, sadly. ‘We might have grown old, and never found one another. Teresita ! my Teresita. ’