“Mother,” she began—for recluses were addressed as professed nuns, and were indeed regarded as the holiest of all celibates—“I desire your help.”
“For body or soul?” was the reply.
“For the soul—for the life,” said Philippa.
“Ay,” replied the eremitess; “the soul is the life.”
“Know you Guy of Ashridge?” asked Philippa.
The Grey Lady bowed her head.
“I have confessed to him, and he hath dealt hardly with me. He saith I will not be saved; and I wish to be saved. He tells me to come to Christ, and I know not how to come, and he saith he cannot make me understand how. He saith God loveth me, because He hath given me a very desolate and unhappy life; and I think He hateth me by that token. In short, Father Guy tells me to do what I cannot do, and then he saith I will not do it. Will you teach me, and comfort me, if you can? The monk only makes me more unhappy. And I do not want to be unhappy. I want comfort—I want rest—I want peace. Tell me how to obtain it!”
“No one wishes to be unhappy,” said the eremitess, in her gentle accents; “but sometimes we mistake the medicine we need. Before I can give you medicine, I must know your disease.”
“My disease is weariness and sorrow,” answered Philippa. “I love none, and none loveth me. None hath ever loved me. I hate all men.”
“And God?”