Having ascertained that the carriage was in waiting, and that the small box—­brass bound and Bramah-locked—­reposed within, we paid our bill and departed.  A cold, raw, misty-looking morning, with masses of dark louring clouds overhead, and channels of dark and murky water beneath, were the pleasant prospects which met us as we issued forth from the Cafe.  The lamps, which hung suspended midway across the street, (we speak of some years since,) creaked, with a low and plaintive sound, as they swung backwards and forwards in the wind.  Not a footstep was heard in the street—­nothing but the heavy patter of the rain as it fell ceaselessly upon the broad pavement.  It was, indeed, a most depressing and dispiriting accompaniment to our intended excursion:  and even O’Leary, who seemed to have but slight sympathy with external influences, felt it, for he spoke but little, and was scarcely ten minutes in the carriage till he was sound asleep.  This was, I confess, a great relief to me; for, however impressed I was, and to this hour am, with the many sterling qualitites of my poor friend, yet, I acknowledge, that this was not precisely the time I should have cared for their exercise, and would have much preferred the companionship of a different order of person, even though less long acquainted with him.  Trevanion was, of all others, the most suitable for this purpose; and I felt no embarrassment in opening my mind freely to him upon subjects which, but twenty-four hours previous, I could not have imparted to a brother.

There is no such unlocker of the secrets of the heart as the possibly near approach of death.  Indeed, I question if a great deal of the bitterness the thought of it inspires, does not depend upon that very circumstance.  The reflection that the long-treasured mystery of our lives (and who is there without some such?) is about to become known, and the secret of our inmost heart laid bare, is in itself depressing.  Not one kind word, nor one remembrancing adieu, to those we are to leave for ever, can be spoken or written, without calling up its own story of half-forgotten griefs or, still worse, at such a moment, of happiness never again to be partaken of.

“I cannot explain why,” said I to Trevanion, “but although it has unfortunately been pretty often my lot to have gone out on occasions like this, both as principal and friend, yet never before did I feel so completely depressed and low-spirited—­and never, in fact, did so many thoughts of regret arise before me for much of the past, and sorrow for the chance of abandoning the future”—­

“I can understand,” said Trevanion, interrupting—­“I have heard of your prospect in the Callonby family, and certainly, with such hopes, I can well conceive how little one would be disposed to brook the slightest incident which could interfere with their accomplishment; but, now that your cousin Guy’s pretensions in that quarter are at an end, I suppose, from all I have heard, that there can be no great obstacle to yours.”