"Good God! then who are you?" demanded Chandos Winslow.
"Ask me no questions," answered the woman. "Ever since those days a fire comes into my brain, from time to time, that nothing will put out till it burns out of itself; and I see more than other people, know more--I see the dead, alive; and I behold the unborn deeds before they are committed; and the hand of God is upon me. Ever on this night--the night when the old man died of sorrow, I am at the worst; for then it is that my heart is given up to the hell of its own making, and I come here to cool my brain and my bosom upon the green grass of his grave. Disturb me not; but go, and leave me. I can have no help of man."
"Nay, poor thing!" said Chandos Winslow, "I cannot, in truth, leave you in such sorrow and in such a place, without trying to give you some consolation. You have said you come here to pray. Do you not know then, that, whatever be your offences, there is pardon and comfort for all who pray in faith and with repentance?"
"Aye; but we must all bear our punishment, nevertheless," replied the woman. "Do not try to console me, young man. If you would needs stay, (and it is better that you should, for I have wanted much to see you, and have much to say to you,) sit down on the church step there for a while, till this hour is past, and I will tell you things you want to hear. But do not try to console me. God may give me consolation at his own time. Man can never."
Chandos was eager to get to his journey's end; but yet he felt real compassion for the poor woman, and a strong reluctance to leave her there alone. He thought that if he remained for a while, and humoured her sorrow, she might be the sooner induced to quit the spot; and he determined to sit down on the church steps, as she had said, and wait the result. Such as I have said were his strongest motives for remaining; but at the same time a doubt, a suspicion of the truth, to which he would hardly give a moment's attention, crossed his mind; and then her strange words regarding his brother and the steward awakened still stronger curiosity, and made him almost believe that there had been other witnesses, besides himself, to the crime for which he had so lately been tried.
"Well, I will wait, then," he said; and, retiring from the spot, he seated himself at a distance, and gave himself up to thought. There is nought so variable as the influence of thought upon our appreciation of the passing of time. Sometimes it seems to extend the minutes into hours, the hours into months and years. Sometimes thought seems to swallow up time, and leave nought in existence but itself. The latter was more the case with Chandos Winslow than the former. The church clock struck one shortly after he sat down. It struck two before he fancied that the hand had half paced round the dial, and a minute or two after the woman was by his side.
"You have waited patiently," she said, "and I will try and repay you. I longed to see you as soon as I heard that it was all done, and you were free. I owe you much; but you owe the gipsey woman something, Chandos Winslow; for, had it not been for me, they would have found you guilty."
"Indeed!" said the young gentleman; "but how is that, Sally Stanley?"
"Did not the parson bear witness that you had been with him that night?--aye, and his servant too?" she asked. "Well, I found out that they had mistaken Lockwood for you, and had mistaken me in what I told them; and I went over to Sandbourne, and first told the good young man of what they accused you, and that he ought to go and give evidence at the trial. He was for setting out directly; but I let him know that the inquest was over, and that he could do no good till the trial, and bade him keep himself quiet till then. Lockwood would have spoiled it all," she added, in a rambling manner; "but I took care of Lockwood too, and kept him close till it was too late for him to do any harm. He had nearly done it though, they tell me. He is a harsh man, Lockwood."
"But he has a good, kind heart," replied Chandos.