LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1307, 28 May 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

CAUGHT IN A SNARE. [By Mrs. Francis G. F. Faithful ] (Continued.) ‘ You had better take them up at once, and tell her where I found them.’ But for once Annette hung back. * Won’t you send some one else ?' she asked. ‘ I think it is pretty plain Mrs Frant would rather not see me oftener than she can help.’ After what we had seen that afternoon Miss Benson could not gainsay this, so she turned to me, as I happened to be nearest to her. * Here, then, Jenny, you go,’ she said impatiently. I thought it rather hard that I should have to run the gannlct of Miss Liston a second time, but it was useless to grumble ; so I took the keys, and crossed the hall to the drawing room, The door stood open, and no one was there. Thinking that Mrs Frant might be in her own room I ran up stairs. My knock was unanswered, but as I waited listeniug I caught a sound of low voices in the little music room beyond. I hesitated, much inclined to go down without fullilling my errand ; but reflecting that I should probably be sent again I steeped along ttio passage, and tapped gently at the closed door. As I did so, t lr ard these words, uttered in a low emphatic voice, within : ‘ You have put yourself in my bauds, remember. If you want to betray—’ The end of the sentence was broken off, and anothor|voice — Mrs Frant’s—called out sharply, * Who’s there ?’

*lt is me—Jenny Lucas,’ I responded timidly, wishing myself miles away ; ‘ Miss Benson sent me. ’

She came to the door,i'aud opened it a very little way. ‘ I have brought your keys. They were left in the chiffonier,’ I explained. ‘MBs Benson though 1 ; you would wish to have them. ’ Mrs Frant held out her hand, I think she tried to speak, but if so no words came. Then she pushed to the door again, and I went back to the schoolroom.

But as I went I recalled the strange stories I had heard about her, and I wondered whether this could be true, and whether Miss Liston or Annette were mixed up with them in some secret way. When I was at home again I would tell my mother everything, and ask her opinion. It was better not to talk to my schoolfellows, for I knew that I was more observant and fanciful than they. And I should soon be at home now, MoA of the girls were leaving next day, hut my mother could not well send for me till Saturday, so I should be among the last to go. There was a grand confusion when Friday morning came, Drawers were turned out, music was sorted, and tranks were packed, with now and then a pause for good byes, as one or another departed. _ I was helping Janet Bock to squeeze an impossible number of things into her box when Annette, coming into the room, threw down a bundle of rugs, and said abrupt ly, ‘1 may be" glad of your services too, Jenny ; I 4 m off to-morrow.’ ‘ You !’ I exclaimed. ‘ What 1 are you going after all ?’ ‘ Yes ; and going for good too. You’d best look at me well, for you won’t see much more of me.’ I was indeed staring at her with all my nffght, for her face contradicted her wouldbe careless tone.

‘lf Mrs Frant wanted to get rid of me,’ she proceeded, ‘she’s certainly gone the right way to work. I’ve stood a good deal oc snubbing, but it went a little too far yesterday. 1 told her so just now.’ ‘And what did she say?’ asked I, openmouthed.

‘ She didn’t seem to know quite what to any, and she looked over at Miss Leeston she had come in while I \iai speaking—and Miss Leeston kindly observed that it surely did not much matter whether 1 went or

stayed. So that settled the question, yoa see, and to-morrow morning I turn my back on Brook House. ’

Janet and I were loud in our lamentations, but she could not stop to hear them, for she was wanted everywhere at once. Tho whole day she was fetching and carrying, and by the evening she was so tired that she fell asleep with her arras crossed on the table, and only half woke up at bed-time. Wo were a very shabby party the next morning. Only three of us girls were left, and even Miss Benson had gone off, escorting a pair of little West Indians. The two Olivers were to start northward at eleven, and the dear old carriage might come for me at any minute; so Annette, who did not leave till noon, would probably be tha last of all. As we stood round watching her deftly stowing away her various goods, she told us something of her plans. She was going to stay with her half-sister in London until she learnt her stepfather’s wishes. No doubt he would be angry, but that couldn’t be helped ; he had often been angry before. ‘You don’t seem to mind much,’ I observed, handing her some books that I had been bolding. ‘ No; I always take things easily ; it’s my nature.’

I was rather 'disappointed that she cared so little about leaving us ; but after all, as slm said, it was her nature to take things easily, and she had not known us long, Sho would go somewhere else, to be as gay and serviceable and pleasant as she had been here.

_‘ Shall I tell you why I think Mrs Frank did not like you ?’ I said to her confidentially, when the last straps had been fastened, and we were standing, equipped for our respective journeys, at the window of the now empty schoolroom. It was drawing very near twelve ; the Olivers had gone, and I was watching for tho white roses of our horses. ‘Yes, do,’ she said, laughing; ‘it needs explanation, doesn’t it ?’ ‘Well, you arc like some one she once knew. She told me so.’ ‘AmI ?’ said Annette, pondering. ‘ I wonder who it could have been!’ ‘ I don’t know, but I fancied, from her way, that it was some one she did not care to remember.’ There was a distant rattle of wheels, and we pushed up the window sash and craned out. No, it was not our familiar green panels ; it was an empty fly for Annette. ‘You’ll jbe last, after all,’ she said, as we went out together into the [hall. * I hope yon won’t have long to wait.’ Mrs Frant was there. She bad come down, I suppose, to bid Annette good-bye, but she hardly seemed to know what she was doing, and she looked as white as a sheet. When Annette had shaken hands with her, she turned to me. ‘ Good-bye, Jenny,’ she said. ‘I wonder ifjjwo shall ever meet again ?’ She did not offer to ikiss me. Caresses had not been in her way, for all her friendline’s, ‘You better} go, 'child,’ Mrs Frant said to me faintly ; but I did not stir, for I did not quite take in her meaning. Annette was moving towards tho door when some one else just behind me said, ‘ You have not wished me good-bye, Miss Merivale.’ I started, andJAnnette'faced round. Miss Liston was standing in the doorway of the drawing-room, and sho now came forward with an outstretched hand. Annette took it at once. ‘I didn’t see you,’ sho (explained, in her easy way. ‘No?’ said Miss Liston. She was still holding the girl’s hand. What did she mean by that steady gaze—that significant smile ? I glanced round for Mrs Frant, but she had vanished. One of the maids had just brought down Annette’s box ; no one eke was in sight. I felt a terrified foreboding that something was going to happen; but what? Did Annette share it? She had changed colour, and I think she tried to release herself; but Miss Liston did not relax her grasp. ‘ We have seen so little of each other,’ she said, in a bland deliberate voice, ‘ and I have such a high opinion of your talents, that I think I really must ask you to delay your departure for a little while, that we may become better acquainted. Mary,’ looking over her shoulder to the maid, ‘you may take Miss Merivale’s box upstairs again to my room; and then you may tell the flyman to wait a bit. We are not quite ready for him yet.’

Mary looked stupefied. Annette had freed herself now, and had made a step forward. What she was going to do or say I cannot guess; I was absorbed in observing Miss Lisbon. The old lady had moved briskly forward, so as to place herself between Annette and the door ; and now, still eyeing her with the same cool smile, she took off her cap and with it the bands of of white hair which I had so much admired, and, tossing them on the lioor, revealed t ;e bald head of an elderly man. Crossing his arms, this same addressed the girl, who stood as if turned to stone, in these astounding words: (To hr. continued.)