departure; the
farewell visitings; the multitudinous minor arrangements preceding a
journey to the country, seemed to hurry the hours on faster and faster,
as the parting day for Clara, and the marriage day for me, drew near.
Incessant interruptions prevented any more lengthened or private
conversations with my sister; and my father was hardly ever accessible
for more than five minutes together, even to those who specially wished
to speak with him. Nothing arose to embarrass or alarm me now, out of my
intercourse with home.

The day came. I had not slept during the night that preceded it; so I
rose early to look out on the morning.

It is strange how frequently that instinctive belief in omens and
predestinations, which we flippantly term Superstition, asserts its
natural prerogative even over minds trained to repel it, at the moment
of some great event in our lives. I believe this has happened to many
more men than ever confessed it; and it happened to me. At any former
period of my life, I should have laughed at the bare imputation of a
"superstitious" feeling ever having risen in my mind. But now, as I
looked on the sky, and saw the black clouds that overspread the
whole firmament, and the heavy rain that poured down from them, an
irrepressible sinking of the heart came over me. For the last ten days
the sun had shone almost uninterruptedly--with my marriage-day came
the cloud, the mist and the rain. I tried to laugh myself out of the
forebodings which this suggested, and tried in vain.

The departure for the country was to take place at an early hour. We
all breakfasted together; the meal was hurried over comfortlessly and
silently. My father was either writing notes, or examining the steward's
accounts, almost the whole time; and Clara was evidently incapable of
uttering a single word, without risking the loss of her self-possession.
The silence was so complete, while we sat together at the table, that
the fall of the rain outside (which had grown softer and thicker as the
morning advanced), and the quick, quiet tread of the servants, as they
moved about the room, were audible with a painful distinctness. The
oppression of our last family breakfast in London, for that year, had
an influence of wretchedness which I cannot describe--which I can never
forget.

At last the hour of starting came. Clara seemed afraid to trust herself
even to look at me now. She hurriedly drew down her veil the moment the
carriage wa