Soon after Mr. Temple had gone, Julia Purcel met M'Carthy in the hall, and asked him for a moment to the dining-room, in a voice which was tremulous with agitation.
“Alas! Frank,” she exclaimed, whilst the tears streamed from her eyes, “I feel a weight like that of death upon my heart. I fear there is some dreadful calamity hanging over this family.”
“Why, my dear Julia,” he replied, wiping the tears from her eyes, “will you suffer yourself to be overcome by a weakness of mind so unworthy of you? The morning is dark and gloomy, and calculated, apart from such silly anticipations—pardon me, Julia—to fill the mind with low spirits. Cheer up, my dear girl; is not this season, in a peculiar manner, set apart for cheerfulness and enjoyment? Why, then, will you indulge in this weak and foolish melancholy?”
“I would not feel as I do,” she replied, “but the truth is—now do not scold me, Frank—in fact I had an omen of calamity last night!”
“An omen! how is that?” he asked. “On bidding my papa and John goodnight, as I was going to bed, about eleven o'clock, I saw them both standing below me at the foot of the stairs, in the hall. I started, and turning again into the drawing-room, where I had just left them, saw that there they certainly stood, without scarcely having had time to change their position.”
“A mere physical illusion, my dear Julia; nothing else.”
“But is it not said,” she added, “that to see the likeness of an individual late at night is an omen of almost immediate death?”
“It has been said so, I admit, my dear Julia, as have fifty thousand follies equally nonsensical. But to hear you, Julia, talk in this manner! upon my word, I'm surprised at it.”
“You will not think of leaving us, dear Frank, until we get to a place of safety?”
“Unquestionably not; but you are alarming yourself unnecessarily.”