“But that is not the case with me,” objected Philippa; “for I do wish for Him. I want some one to love me; and I should not mind if it were God. Even He were better than none.”
The Grey Lady’s veil trembled a little, as Philippa thought; but she sat meditating for an instant.
“Before I answer your last remark,” she said, “will you tell me a little of your life? I might know better how to reply. You are a married woman, of course, for your dress is not that of a nun, nor of a widow. Have you children? Are your parents living?”
“I have no child,” said Philippa: and the Grey Lady’s penetration must have been obtuse if she were unable to detect a tone of deep sadness underlying the words. “And parents—living—did you ask me? By Mary, Mother and Maiden, I have but one living, and I hate—I hate him!” The passionate energy with which the last words were spoken told its own tale.
“Then it is no marvel,” answered the Grey Lady, in a very different tone from Philippa’s, “that you come to me with a tale of sorrow. Where there is hatred there can be no peace; and without peace there can be no hope.”
“Hope!” exclaimed Philippa, bitterly. “What is there for me to hope? Who ever cared for me? Who ever asked me if I were happy? Nobody loves me—why should I love anybody?”
“‘God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.’”
The words fell like cooling water on the hot fire of Philippa’s bitterness; but she made no answer.
“Had God waited for us to love Him,” resumed the eremitess, “where had we been now? ‘We love Him, because He first loved us.’”
“He never loved me,” answered Philippa, mournfully.