"Then the injury has not been deep. I've lived here a lonely woman twenty years, and a look, a word, will sometimes call the fierce blood to my heart. When the injury is eternal and irremediable then the hate must be lasting too."
"The injured heart may forgive," said Vavasour.
"It may forgive. But forget its hate! its wrongs! its despair! Never, never," said she, fiercely.
"It may be so," said Robert, half aloud.
"May be so? It is so. Hate is a deadly enemy; don't let it creep into your heart; tear it out! cast it from you! for once you have it, it is yours for ever; even death cannot part it from you."
"I doubt that. We know that even a dying sinner's heart may repent and be softened; the thought that he is perishing from the earth nursing a deadly sin at his heart would do much; he would never dare die so."
"Prayers, the pleadings of an agonised, breaking heart may be vain—in vain—was vain, young man, for I tried it," replied Goody Grey, her voice suddenly changing from fierceness to mournful sadness.
"Surely there could not be a heart so hard, if you pleaded rightly."
"Don't tell me that!" she exclaimed, raising her voice, "don't tell me there was anything I might have done. Did I not kneel and pray? Did I not take back my curses and give blessings? Did I not plead my broken heart and withered youth? But death came, even as I knelt; the hate was too strong, and the words I panted to hear were unspoken. What have you to say to that?"
"Hope," replied Robert; "what you have done at a death bed, I have done during life, and been refused; death has come since, and I am seemingly as far off as ever; and yet I hope on."