Morton well knew the strength and depth of her attachment to her father. He pressed her hand in silent sympathy.
"It grieves me, Fanny," he said, after a moment, "to part from you under such a cloud."
"Good by," she replied, returning the friendly pressure. "I wish you with all my heart a pleasant and prosperous journey."
Morton turned back, wondering at the sudden dignity of manner which grief had given to the wild and lawless Fanny Euston.
CHAPTER XXVII.
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."