Then I suddenly remembered something you said to me when I was a child, and Rob the pony ran away and I stuck on. When you came up and found us all right you said, sharply, “Were you frightened?” Then, after I answered “No,” you said, “That’s right. If you were frightened at anything, I should disown you.”
You shall never disown me for cowardice! So I conquered the nonsensical tremor, and went across towards the man. As I got near, I saw it was he—your Hamlet.
He looked frightened, horrified—I think, shocked. He stared at me without speaking while I could have counted twelve; then he said, quite harshly:
“Is this the first time you have been here at this hour?”
Before I could think I naturally said “Yes,” and told him why I had come.
“This is most extraordinary,” he said, staring strangely at me.
He was not like himself: he seemed dazed. I felt less shy of him.
“I came here for two reasons,” I said. “I was too unhappy to sleep, and I thought that if my father’s spirit is hovering about anywhere I might find it—him—here.”
Just then the church clock rang out so loudly that I started, and laid my hand on his arm. He smiled, and took my hand.
“Even the great philosopher, Miss Pym, is superstitious enough to believe in ghosts and to be frightened when the clock strikes twelve,” he said, in a familiar teasing way.