He had not seen that mill, however, for many years; for unpleasant associations had attached themselves to it of late, and overbalanced the pleasant recollections of youth. As he now gazed on it, walking on, the sight, as it stood out from the sky, which was of a pale gray, with the moon's light amongst the clouds, did not cheer him; and the long, thin arms of the rotting sails called back to his mind the description which Lockwood had given of it.
From the point where the mill was passed by the path, the latter descended towards the little town where Chandos expected to get horses; but ere it reached that bourne, the road he was following had a labyrinth of lanes and hedges to go through. Before it came to that more cultivated part, however, it ran some way along at the bottom of the bare hills amongst some green pasture-ground with the downs on the right and the hedgerows on the left. Just in the midst on this track stood a little detached church, called St. Mildred's, with a tall conical spire, somewhat dilapidated, and a little churchyard, within a ruined stone-wall. Though the faint moon through the veil of cloud did not afford much light below the edge of the hill, yet the spot where the church stood was marked out by its spire rising over everything else around, and by the numerous black yew-trees in its garden of graves. Chandos saw it some time before he reached it, and the sight of it too was sad to him. Yet when he was opposite the rude gate; with its cross-beam over-head, he stopped to gaze at the old church and its dark funeral trees; and that sensation which sometimes comes salutary over us, of the nothingness of human joys and sorrows, stole upon him as he asked himself, where were the hands that raised the building--where those who planted the trees--where the many generations that had passed since the one arose, the others sprang up. As he paused--it was but an instant--he thought he heard a low moan, as of some one in distress. It was repeated, and came from the churchyard; and, opening the gate, he went in. The moans led him on nearly to the back of the church, which stood detached, with no other building near; but presently they ceased, and he looked around over the waves of graves, and their little head-stones, without seeing any one. He felt certain that the sounds had proceeded from a spot not far distant; and, raising his voice, he asked, "Is any one there? Does any one want help?"
There was no answer; and, after stopping for a moment, Chandos walked a step or two further; and then, looking a little to the left, he thought he saw something like a human form stretched out upon one of the little grassy mounds. He approached quietly, and looked down upon it, perceiving that he had not deceived himself. It was the form of a woman, lying with her face downwards upon a grave evidently not newly made. She was living, for her breath came thick, and laden with sobs; and Chandos asked in a kindly tone, "What is the matter, my good woman? Can I do anything to assist you?"
At the sound of his voice, the woman started up, exclaiming, "You!--You here? Oh, fiend!"--But then she suddenly stopped, gazed at his tall figure in the dim light, and then added, "Ah! is it you, Sir? I did not know you: I thought it was another." And she sat herself down upon the adjoining grave, and covered her eyes with her hands.
"Surely I know your voice," said Chandos. "Are you not the gipsey woman, Sally Stanley, the little boy's mother?"
"You know my voice better than I know yours, it seems," replied the woman; "for yours deceived me."
"But what are you doing here, my poor woman?" inquired Chandos. "You seem in great distress, on some account. Come, leave this place; it can do no good to you, or any one, to remain weeping over a grave at midnight."
"Every year of my life, at this day, and this hour, Chandos Winslow," replied the woman, "I come here to weep and pray over those I murdered."
"Murdered!" exclaimed her companion. "But it is nonsense, my good woman; your brain is wandering."
"I know it is," answered Sally Stanley; "I need no one to tell me that. It does wander often, and sometimes long; but on this night it wanders always. I said 'murdered,' did I not? Well, I said true. I did murder him; but not as your brother murdered Roberts, the steward, with one blow, that ended at once all pain and resistance--slowly, slowly, I murdered him--by grief, and shame, and care, and despair; aye, and want too had its share at last."