MAGDALEN'S FORTUNES.

Auckland Star, Volume XXII, Issue 24, 29 January 1891, Page 3

MAGDALEN'S FORTUNES.

BY W. HEIMBURG,

Author of "Gertrude's Marriage," "Two Daughters of Onelface," "Lora,"etc.

CHAPTER XVIII,

Another night passed away and another day came, and the black shadow of death sank still deeper over the house in the park. I could not get to see Aunt Ecliih when 1 I went over in ths twilight to inquire. Ferra was sitting on the topmost step of the staircase crying, with her child in her lap. ' Oh, Magda,' she cried, holding me fast by tho dress, ' 1 am so afraid down there in mv rooms, i am not superstitions, but to be" so aione, and to know that mamma is dying, and Rtedingen's picture hanging there, and Joaeiuau's —for mercy's sake, stay with me !' Ferra certainly had a wonderful talent for obliterating any good impression she might have made. Mechanically I allowed her to draw me flown, and joined my tear* to hers. And so we sat; together ; she had taken my hand and the child had gone to sleep on her lap. The servants crepe nbouu on tiptoe—they were puttiugGerurd'a and Charlotte's rooms I in order. At last Ferra senc for Mademoiselle and gave tho iilSie one into her care, assho wished to take m look at her sister's room. 'Soon everything will be so changed here,' she remarked in a whisper. ' I_don 6 believe my brother will stay hero if God takes dear mamma—ha will prefer to move into the old Abbey—' ' Bub if Gerard is going to t> a married, Ferra V . She started in surprise, and looked in my face in consternation. ' Oh, yes, you are right,' sho remarked ; then, us if bethinking herself, ' one forgets in such gloomy clays even tho things that ara to near. . And turning to the servant who had just come out of tha eiciwoom, sho asked : ' How is sho now, Tine '.'' The maid began to cry. ' Oh, she lies there so still, gracious Fran —she hoars nothing urid she feels nothing. Ah, it is too dreadful !' My hands clasped together involuntarily, •Dear God, , i prayed, 'grant that eho may recover; grant that alter such long, long sorrow the may live to eojoy some happiness !' Feira began to wander up and down the corridor and to cry aloud. There was something childish and unpleasant about this loud grief. ' Oh, my God, my God !' she cried, ' this agitation kills me. Oh, if it were oaiy over.' And again the morning dawned in tne sick room, and there was no change in the condition of the suti'cring woman. A telegram had just come from Gerard, ordering the carriage for the mid-day train. I walked back to tho Abbey ; I had called Aunt Edith out, and had fallen on nor neck weeping, and sho had soothed me as tenderly as she could. She did not know why I was so comfortless. And then from my window 1 could see tho carriage coming back that was bringing tho brother and sister, and both of them looked up at our windows in passing. 1 was standing behind the curtains, and when tho carriage had disappeared from my sight i put up my hand to my faco, and a wild, burning pain seized upon me. Could I get away from here '! Was it no more than mortal could do ? Bus 110, I must. But I must not be weak! And with trembling hands I put somo things together in the bag which i iuid brought with me with so heavy a heart. Tho sun was setting, atsd I called Jetty and sens alter Gottlieb. Tho old man looked uc me in surprise as he entered the room. 1 What is it you wish, graciousFraulein ? he asked compassionately, as ho saw my tearful eyee. I ij'eot up quite close to him, and laid niy head against i>l.3 coat. ' Gottlieb, yoa have always been good to me, , I said, my tears beginning to (low again. * Yes, child, I. should think so ; from the very first minute 1 liked you. You see, when you looked round that; time, so helplets and afraid, I thought to myself, " You must have an eye on tho little ihinsr." And I have always :iccn lookino- after you since then—eh, gracious Fraulein? , I nodded. 'And to-day, Gottlieb, I want you to drivo me uv/sy again, , i stammered. ' i must go co B . i have had a letter today, but no one must know, Gottlieb. This evening, at eight o'clock—you will, won't you? You could waib there at tho corner oi the park. You need not drive up to the door.' 'Thunder and blazes, gracious Fraulein ! That—don't take it amiss—but that is curious!' replied the old man, bending down to look in my face. I n>ot his look without flnching. ' It is nothing wronjj,' i asserted. ' Oh, Gottlieb, please, please !' 'Yes, yos,' he grumbled,' 'what business is it of rhino ? pot—hm ! —you know gracious Frauleifl, what happened to me bofora.' ' Oh, this is quito different, dear Gottlieb, truly ! My guardian wants to see me, , I stammered. ' Well, I won't fail you, gracious Frauloin, but—hm ! —then , at eigho o'clock, at the corner of the park. Great heavens ! jusc as it was before !' Ho shook his head and went away. I slipped out iato tho corridor after him. ' Gottlieb, do you know how she is V I asked anxiously. ' Very bad, gracious Fraulein, very bad,' he replied in a low tone. ' Ah, good heavens, how sorry E am for Fraulein Charlotte ! You can't get her away from the bed ; she lies there and cries, and begs that God will take everything from her ab once.' I went back crying. Where did all the tears come from ? And what magic power they had ! Every piece of furniture in the cosy old room that I saw through the mist seemed to take on a new beauty, so that I felt as if I never could leave them. I stood before auntio's vacant chair by the window, and touched every old-fashioned piece of china that she had so often in her hands, as if I were about to be thrust out of paradise. I bent over her darlings and poured fresh milk into their saucers, gave the flowers water. I should never see these things again. Then it occurred to me that I must write to Aunt Edith, so that she should not seek me in vain. Reluctantly I took the pen, for at first I could not think of any good reason to give for my action. At last it was written, and I pat the note under hei pincushion, and then I sat and waited for the darkness. The sun set gloriously, rilling the room with a rosy glow, and the clock on the mantel-piece struck seven. One hour more under this roof ! And the clock ticked on, tho seconds growing into minutes —the hands moved forward inexorably. ' I cannot go,' 1 cried to myself. 'You must, you must!' ticked the clock, and Melanie Steiten's lovely faca rose up before i me—her"Swee6 eyes seemed to be gazing at] me. 'He is so good, so honourable !'her i lips seemed to murmur. No, I would not--f- *M.n(i again ; I would not bo so wretched ,

as that poor dying woman in the other; house. The clock struck eight. It was nearly aark. I.gtarted up and put on my hat and cloak. With my little bap: i tny hand I hurried out of the room. I stopped into the corridor. iiinka had crept after me. I took her up in my anus and hid my strer-misisj; eye? in tho vclvet-sofb fur ; then I carried her back into tho room ; then 1 Qoll away with redoubled haste. No one met me. Outside a cool breezo blew in my fa ce> and 1 shivered with cold and nervousness. l'es; tbero, by the last faint gleam of daylight, I could sea the carriage, with Gottlieb standing beside it. It was the same ramshackle old carriage, the same worn-out old horses with which I had ccmehero. I slipped inside, the horses moved slowly on, and the Abbey was left behind, and with it everything—everything ! (To be Continued.)