There was a long pause, during which Mrs. Basil went to the cellaret,
and pouring out a glass of sherry, put it to her tenant's lips.
"Do you feel better now?" said she, when Harry had drunk it.
"Yes, yes; much better. But that skull--oh, horrible! it rolled from him
to me. What an omen on your very threshold! Heaven guard my Charles from
evil!"
"This is weakness, Mrs. Coe. The skull is harmless; and it rolled
because your son upset it."
"Yes, my son," gasped the other, trembling. "It is for him I fear. It
augurs death--death--death!"
There was a ring at the front-door, decisive, sharp, and resonant.
"Great Heaven!" cried Harry; "if it should be he himself! Hide me away;
put me out of sight." Her terror was piteous to behold: she shook in
every limb.
"It is the post," said Mrs. Basil, contemptuously; and she was right.
The servant brought in a letter for her mistress.
"I don't know the hand," mused she. "Black-bordered, and black-sealed
too." She opened it without excitement, and read it through: it was but
a few lines.
"Your omen has proved true for once, Mrs. Coe," said she, in quiet
tones. "This speaks of death."
"Whose death?" cried Harry.
"My husband's, Richard's father. Carew of Crompton died last night."
There was no sorrow in the aged woman's face: a gravity, unmixed with
tenderness, possessed it.
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