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The least stone in his path was treated as a gigantic mountain; the narrowest brooklet as an unfathomable sea. And gradually she scarcely knew how or when the old weary discomfort crept back over Philippa's heart, the old unsatisfied longing for the love that no one gave. Her bower at Kilquyt was no more strewn with roses than her turret-chamber at Arundel.
They were Richard, born December 21, 1376, and died issueless, June 24, 1396; Elizabeth, born 1379, wife of Sir William Marny; Philippa, born 1381, wife of Robert Passele; Alice, born at Kilquyt, September 1, 1384, wife of Guy de Saint Albino; Joan, born 1393, died February 21, 1400. Philippa became a widow, September 30, 1393, and died September 13, 1399. II., 53; 21 Ric.
When Philippa was lying awake that night, her thoughts were troublous ones. Not only did she very much doubt Sir Richard's consent to her mother's visit to Kilquyt; but another question was puzzling her exceedingly. How far was it desirable to inform Isabel of the death of Alianora?
And Philippa knew quite enough of Earl Richard the Copped-Hat to be aware that few tidings would be so unwelcome at Arundel as those which conveyed the fact of Isabel's presence at Kilquyt. Her mother's uplifted hand stopped her from saying more. "Hush, my daughter!" said the low voice.
There were only two things she was sorry to leave Agnes, because she might have told her more about her mother, and the grave, in the Priory churchyard below, of the baby Lady Alianora the little sister who never grew up to tyrannise over her. It was a long journey ere they reached Kilquyt Manor, and Philippa had time to make the acquaintance of her new owner.
On the morning that this news reached Kilquyt, an old man in the garb of the Dominican Order was slowly mounting the ascent which led from the Vale of Sempringham. The valley was just waking into spring life.
She merely told her the substance; that Sir Richard would not permit her to receive her at Kilquyt, and that he had ordered her home without delay. Isabel's lip quivered a moment, but the next instant she smiled. "I am not surprised, my child," she said. "Take heed, and obey." It was hard work to obey.
Even though twenty-seven years lay between that day and the June morning on which she had quitted Arundel, Isabel could not trust herself to speak of Richard Fitzalan. She dared not run the risk of re-opening the wound, by looking to see whether it had healed. "Mother," said Philippa suddenly, "thou wilt come with me to Kilquyt?" "For a time," answered Isabel, "if thine husband assent thereto."
Hard, to part with Joan; harder yet, to leave Isabel in her lonely cell at Sempringham, and to go forward on the as lonely journey to Kilquyt. Perhaps hardest of all was the last night in the recreation-room at Sempringham. Isabel and Philippa sat by themselves in a corner, the hand of the eremitess clasped in that of her daughter. "But how do you account for all the sorrow that is in the world?"
"Let me see if she can teach and comfort me. Ever since Guy of Ashridge visited Kilquyt, I seem to have been going further from comfort every day. Canst thou lead me to the Grey Lady's cell?" "I could; but she is not now there, Lady." "When will she be there?" "To-morrow, when the shadow beginneth to lengthen," replied Elaine, who was evidently well acquainted with the Grey Lady's proceedings.
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