“A clergyman who rears his church on the basis of wealth must expect some overturning now and then,” laughed he.
“If by means of it he turns a fresh side to the sun, it will do him no harm,” chimed in Paula.
Seldom had there been so much simple gaiety round that fireside; the very atmosphere grew lighter, and the brilliance of my lady’s picture became less oppressive.
“We ought to have a happy winter of it,” spoke up Mr. Sylvester with a glance around him. “Life never looked more cheerful for us all, I think; what do you say, Bertram my boy.”
“It certainly looks promising for me.”
“And for me,” murmured Paula.
The complacent way with which Mrs. Sylvester smoothed out the feathers of her fan with her jewelled right hand,—she always carried a fan winter and summer, some said for the purpose of displaying those same jewelled fingers—was sufficient answer for her.
At that moment there was a hush, when suddenly the small clock on the mantel-piece struck eleven, and instantly as if awaiting the signal, there came a rush and a heavy crash which drew every one to their feet, and the brilliant portrait of my lady fell from the wall, and toppling over the cabinet beneath, slid with the various articles of bronze and china thereon, almost to the very chair in which its handsome prototype had been sitting.
It was a startling interruption and for an instant no one spoke, then Paula with a look towards her cousin breathed to herself rather than said, “Pray God it be not an omen!” And the pale countenances of the two gentlemen standing face to face on either side of that fallen picture, showed that the shadow of the same superstition had insensibly crossed their own minds.
Mrs. Sylvester was the only one who remained unmoved. “Lift if up,” cried she, “and let us see if it has sustained any injury.”