"Dismal individual!" exclaimed Rereworth.
"Our host complains," Helen continued, "of the decay of these old wonders. There's not a child in Hampstead, he says, but will cross the churchyard by night."
"Ay," said Randolph, "the age is incredulous. For my part, I should like to be a visionary."
Helen perceived that her brother spoke rather moodily.
"The sun is setting," she said. "If we stay much longer, we shall have it dark enough to encounter some spectre ourselves. Let us go home."
So they went. Rereworth lingered with them as long as he could, thinking of the distance which would soon divide him from Helen. Should they ever meet again? He felt that it only rested with himself to strengthen the favourable impression he had already made. But would not absence efface it? It was a question which must be left to time. He was not certain of his own feelings. He had arranged a correspondence with Randolph. He should therefore at least hear of Helen. He fancied there was an unusual gloominess in his chambers that night. The fire was out; and when he lighted his lamp, the dark wainscotting of the walls, which he used to admire, wore a sombre appearance. He retired to rest and dreamt of Trevethlan Castle.
The orphans thought it unnecessary to reveal themselves to their good host and hostess. They merely said that circumstances called them suddenly home. They had but few adieus to make, trifling matters to settle, little baggage to pack. Cornelius and his sister had become attached to their lodgers, and parted with them with more than ordinary regret. Mr. Peach expressed his grief that they had come to Hampstead late in the fall and quitted it before the Spring. They knew not the beauties of his favourite suburb. His even cheerfulness was shaded for a moment; he was reminded that he had a side to the wall. He insisted on accompanying his young friends to the ancient inn from which they were to start. And strange humours thronged upon his fancy, while he stood in the court of the old-fashioned hostelry, when the rattling mail had departed, looked up at the fantastic open galleries, and peopled them with the guests of by-gone days. He went up to Hampstead in a mood more serious than his wont; smoked his pipe tranquilly a long time, while Clotilda sat knitting him a comforter, and finished the evening with a desultory discourse on the beauties and merits of his never-forgotten Mabel.