27. CHAPTER XXVII.
Ham.
Thou wouldst not think how ill's all here about my heart, but it is no
matter.
Ham.
It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps
trouble a woman.
Hor.
If your mind dislike any thing, obey it.
Ham.
Not a whit. We defy augury.
Morton's day of departure came. It was a comfortless,
savage, gusty morning, an east wind blowing in from the bay.
The hour to set sail was near; he should have been on board;
but still he lingered with Edith Leslie. The secrecy on which
her father insisted made it impossible for her to go with him
to the ship.
Morton forced himself away; his hand was on the door,
but his heart failed him, and he turned back again. On the
mind of each there was something more than the pain of a
year's separation. A dark foreboding, a cloud of dull and
sullen portent, hung over them both. The smooth and bright
crusting with which habit and training had iced over the
warm nature of Edith Leslie was broken and swept away;
and as Morton seized her hands, she disengaged herself, and,
throwing herself on his neck, sobbed convulsively. Morton
pressed her to his heart, and buried his face in her clustering
tresses; then, breaking from her, ran blindly from the house.
He repaired to the house of Meredith, who met him at the
door.
“You've no time to lose. Here's the carriage. Your
trunks are all right. Come on.”
They drove towards the wharf.
“I'd give my head to change places with you,” said Meredith.
“I wish you could.”
There was so much pain and dejection in his look, that his
friend could not fail to observe it.
“You don't want to go, then? I have noticed all along
that you seemed devilish cool about it.”
“Ned,” said Morton, “I never used to think myself superstitious;
but I begin now to change my mind. Heaven
knows why, but I have strange notions running in my brain.
My dog howled all last night; and not long ago, an owl
yelled over my head, and that, too, at a time — But
you'll think I have lost my wits.”
Meredith, in truth, was greatly amazed at this betrayal of a
weakness of which, long and closely as he had known his
companion, he had never suspected him.
“Why, colonel, I have seen you set out on a journey as
long and fifty times as hazardous as this, as carelessly as if
you were going to a dinner party.”
“I know it; but times are changed with me. I am not
quite the child, though, that you may suppose.”
“If you have such a feeling about going, I would give it
up. It's not too late.”
“No, I haven't sunk yet to that pass.” And, as he spoke,
the carriage stopped at the pier.
