“But I have not!” cried Philippa, in no dulcet tones, her annoyance getting the better of her civility. “I never was a murderer! I never turned coldly away from one that loved me—for none ever did love me. I never crushed a loving, faithful heart down into the dust. I never brought a child up like a stranger. I never—stay, I will go no further into the catalogue. But I know I am not such a sinner as he—nay, I am not to be compared to him.”
“And have you,” asked the Grey Lady, very gently, “turned no cold ear to the loving voice of Christ? Have you not kept far away from the heavenly Father? Have you not grieved the Holy Spirit of God? May it not be said to you, as our Lord said to the Jews of old time,—‘Ye will not come to Me, that ye might have life’?”
It was only what Guy of Ashridge had said before. But this time there seemed to be a power with the words which had not gone with his. Philippa was silent. She had no answer to make.
“You are right,” she said after a long pause. “I have done all this; but I never saw it before. Mother, the next time you are at the holy mass, will you pray for me?”
“Why wait till then?” was the rejoinder. “Let us tell Him so now.”
And, surprised as she was at the proposal, Philippa knelt down.
“Thank you, and the holy saints bless you,” she said, as she rose. “Now I must go; and I hear Lena’s voice without. But ere I depart, may I ask you one thing?”
“Anything.”
“What could I possibly have said that pained you? For that something did pain you I am sure. I am sorry for it, whatever it may have been.”
The soft voice resumed its troubled tone.