For the moment Amy felt half inclined to leave her—her strange words and wild manner had so unnerved her—but a glance at the sorrow-stricken face, as it was suddenly lifted away from the hands that had screened it, decided her upon remaining for at least a few minutes longer. Perhaps the compassionate feeling at her heart had something to do with the decision, or it might be she hoped to say a few words of comfort to the sorrowing creature so relentless in her bitter feelings towards one who had evidently been remorseless in her revenge, and unforgiving even in her death; one who had injured her, if not irreparably, at least deeply and lastingly.
As Amy stood deliberating how best to shape her words so as not to irritate her afresh, Goody Grey spoke, and her voice was no longer fierce or passionate, but mournfully sad.
"I am lonely," she said, "very lonely. There are days when the thoughts of my heart drive me wild, and are more than I can bear; there are days when I feel as if death would be welcome, were it not for one hope, one craving wish. Will this hope, this wish, ever be realised? Shall I ever be any other than a broken-hearted, despairing woman?"
"The clouds may clear—sunshine may burst forth when least expected."
"May! That's what I repeat to myself day and night—day and night. The two words, 'Hope on,' are ever beating to and fro in my brain, like the tickings of that clock, and sometimes I persuade myself that the time-piece says, 'Hope on, hope on.' But only the years roll on—the hope is never realised; and soon my heart will whisper, and the clock will tick, 'no hope, no hope.'"
"Do you never earnestly pray that God will lighten the heavy load that weighs on your spirits or that He will bring comfort to your sorrowing heart?"
"Do I ever cease to pray; or is there not one fervent prayer always on my lips and heart? Day after day I bewail my sins, and ask God's forgiveness and mercy for my poor, broken, contrite heart, and sometimes I rise from my knees, feeling at peace with—with even her. But then wild thoughts come back; thoughts that utterly distract me, and which I can neither control nor prevent, and then I go mad, and don't know what I say or think. But enough of my sufferings. You can neither heal nor cure them; even now you have seen too much, and betrayed me into saying more than I ought. Tell me what led you to my cottage so early?"
"I could not sleep last night," replied Amy, "and so strolled out, thinking the air would revive me."
"It is strange you could not sleep," replied Goody Grey, speaking as she usually did to strangers, in a half solemn, impressive manner. "You who have health, youth, and innocence to help you. I seldom sleep, but then I am old and careworn. Why could you not sleep?" and she looked as though she would pierce the inmost recesses of Amy's heart.
"I can scarcely tell you why, perhaps my fancy misled me; but whatever the cause, I would rather not speak of it."