_Ham_. Thou wouldst not think how ill's all here about my heart, but
it is no matter.
_Hor_. Nay, good my lord----
_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.