Her spirits were high during those days of approaching doom because she was going to the Grange every day. Sometimes she would ride out alone. But I knew she did not continue alone and that she was going to some rendezvous with the romantic Baron.

The invitations were sent out to the guests. Great preparations were being made. Mrs. Greaves was delighted and said this was how it should be in a big house. She reckoned that in future there would be a great deal of entertaining. There would be the newlyweds to bring a younger spirit into the house and then they would have to think of a match for Miss Philippa.

I was very apprehensive because Francine was not nearly so disturbed as she should have been and I wondered what that meant.

About two weeks before the party our grandfather sent for Francine. She went to the library with her head held high and I waited in our bedroom terrified of what might happen, for it was perfectly obvious that we were moving towards a crisis.

In half an hour she came to our bedroom, her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes very bright.

"Francine," I cried. "What happened?"

"He told me I was going to marry Cousin Arthur and that that sainted nephew of his has asked his permission for my hand which he had graciously given. Knowing that it was his wish, he had no doubt that I would accept it with delight."

"What did you say?"

"I have been very clever, Pippa. I have let him believe that I will."

"You mean you've changed your mind?"

She shook her head. "I can't tell you any more yet. I'm going out now."

"Where?"

She shook her head. "I promise I'll tell you. Before I do anything I'll let you know."

It was the first time I had not been completely in her confidence, and I was apprehensive. I felt that everything was changing about me. Daisy had gone. And what had Francine meant? Was she going to do what our grandfather wished and marry Cousin Arthur? Or else what?

Miss Elton asked me where she was and when I said I did not know she did not pursue the matter. Miss Elton had always seemed a colourless person, but I think she understood a good deal of what was going on; everyone in the household must have realized that Francine and Cousin Arthur were just about as unsuited to each other as two people could be.

I went up to our grandmother. We had told her about the ball and she had sat there smiling and holding our hands as she liked to. She had been alarmed for Francine and believed that if Francine married Cousin Arthur her life would be intolerable. "I would die happy if I knew you two girls were all right," she had said. "And by all right, I mean leading worthwhile lives which might not always be lived in perfect bliss ... that would be asking too much ... but lives you have made for yourselves. Your grandfather made my life what it was ... empty ... not mine at all. He has done the same for Grace. He tried to with your father. You must strike out boldly to live your own life. Take it ... live it ... and do not regret the consequences, because it is what you have chosen." I knew she was right. I told her about Daisy.

She said, "He would call himself just. He has set up a code of morals which do not always add up to morality. Daisy is a girl who will always have men. She may well find herself in trouble through it. But she will work her way out. And his unkindness, his harshness, his revelling in that so-called justice which brings hardship to others, is a greater sin than any Daisy could commit in the graveyard. Dear child, this seems strange coming from me. In the old days I would not have said it ... would not have thought it. It was only when blindness descended on me and I knew my life was virtually finished that I looked back over everything more clearly than I ever had when I could see with my eyes."

"What do you think is happening at the Grange?" I asked.

"We can only guess. Perhaps there is an avenue of escape. She must not marry where she does not love. She must not become your grandfather's victim."

Soon after I left my grandmother, Francine came back. I had never seen her so excited. "I am leaving Greystone," she said. She threw herself into my arms and we clung together.

"Going away ..." I stammered. "I shall be left... ."

"I will send for you. I promise."

"Francine when ... how?"

"Rudolph and I are going to be married. We are leaving at once. It is all very complicated."

"You are leaving England?"

"Yes. I shall go to his country. Pippa, I am so happy... . It's all very involved. I shall learn about it. Pippa, I am so happy ... except for one thing ... leaving you."

I had known that it was inevitable. She would never have married Cousin Arthur. This was escape and she was in love at the same time. I tried to think of her happiness, but I could only think of myself and the terrible loneliness of being without her.

"Cheer up, Pippa," she said. "It won't be for long. Rudolph says you can come to us ... but not yet. He has to leave rather quickly. He is very important in his country and there are all sorts of intrigues and that sort of thing. We can't do without each other ... we both know that. So I'm going with him. We're leaving tonight. Help me get a few things together. Not much. I shall have everything new. I shall take my starry ball dress. I'll get that from the Emms' cottage. Daisy is helping. Oh, Pippa, don't look so frightened. Don't look so lost. I'll send for you."

I helped her get a few things together. She was so excited she could hardly speak coherently. I said, "You must see our grandmother before you go. You must tell her."

"She'll understand," said Francine.

It was a strange evening. We dined as usual. Grandfather was in a benign mood because he believed everything was going to be as he wished. Cousin Arthur looked smug, so I presumed he had heard that Francine would favour his suit. Aunt Grace said very little as usual, but I think she was rather sad. Perhaps she had hoped Francine would not submit as she had had to. Perhaps she was planning rebellion herself and wanted the support of another rebel.

Francine was unnaturally bright, but no one seemed to notice it. Our grandfather looked at her with something like affection—or as near to that emotion as he could get.

As soon as the meal was over we retired to our room. Francine was leaving at ten o'clock and at a quarter before the hour she slipped out of the house with my help. I carried her cloak so that if we were seen she would not be dressed for outdoors.

We stood there, facing each other for a few moments. The night was still—not the slightest breeze to ruffle the leaves. Francine laughed on a high note. Then she reached for me and held me tightly.

"Oh, little Pippa," she said, "I wish you could come with me. If only I could take you I'd be perfectly happy. But soon ... soon. I promise you."

"Goodbye, Francine. Write to me. Let me know all that happens."

"I promise. Goodbye."

She was gone.

I stood there for some minutes listening. I visualized her at the Emms' cottage. Daisy would be there.

I remained there ... listening. There was no sound at all. Then I turned and crept back to the quiet house, a feeling of desolation creeping over me such as I had never before known in the whole of my life.

Visits to a Vestry

Four years had passed since that night when Francine ran away and I had not seen her since. She wrote to me by the way of the Emmses, feeling that if her letters were sent to Greystone Manor they might have been kept from me.

I never want again to live through such a time as that which followed her departure. My sense of loss was heartbreaking, so much so that my grandfather's wrath passed over me without affecting me in the least. I could only know that my beloved sister had gone. I had even lost Daisy. A few weeks after Francine's flight, the Graf and Grafin with their household left the Grange, and Daisy, as a member of the staff, went with them.

On the morning after Francine had left the storm broke.

Her absence at breakfast naturally meant that I was questioned. When I said I did not know where she was, it was presumed at first that she had taken an early morning walk and forgotten the time. I did not say that her bed had not been slept in, for I did not know how far she had gone by that time and I had visions of my grandfather's going after her. In his new mood of tolerance towards my sister—for he was convinced she was going to fall in readily with his plans —he allowed her absence at breakfast to pass. Although Miss Elton knew when she did not appear at lessons and Aunt Grace was aware of her absence, the news did not reach my grandfather until midday.

Then the storm broke. I was questioned and blamed for not reporting that she had left the night before. I faced him defiantly, too wretched to care what happened to me.

"She has gone away to be married to a Baron," I said.

I was shouted at and shaken. I had been wicked. I should be severely punished. I had known what was happening and done nothing to prevent it. His granddaughter was disgraced and dishonoured.

I took refuge with my grandmother and she kept me with her all day. My grandfather came up to her room and started shouting. She lifted her hand and raised her sightless eyes and said, "Not here in this room, Matthew. This is my refuge. The child shall not be blamed. Pray leave her to me."

I was surprised that he obeyed. She comforted me, stroking my hair. "Your sister will lead the life she has chosen," she said. "She had to go. She could not have stayed here under your grandfather's rule. She has chosen the right way. As for you, little Pippa, you are desolate because you have lost your dearest companion, but your time will come. You will see."

But she could not comfort me because there was no comfort. Perhaps somewhere within my innermost thoughts I knew that I had lost Francine forever. In the meantime I was at Greystone Manor—at the mercy of my grandfather.

After the Graf and his household had left the Grange we seemed to settle down to normal—the household, that was. Nothing could be as it had been for me without Francine. My grandfather ceased to mention my sister's name. He had announced in the beginning that she would never cross his threshold again, but he implied that he would still do his duty by me.

There was even stricter supervision than there had been before. Miss Elton was to go with me when I went out, so that I was never alone. My religious instruction was to be intensified. It was quite clear that my beginnings in that heathen island had had a bad effect if the behaviour of my sister was anything to go by.

Miss Elton was sympathetic and that was a great help. She had been fond of Francine, as almost everyone had been, and she hoped that everything would go well with her. So when I was with Miss Elton I was allowed to call at the Emms' cottage and Daisy would meet me there. "I promised your sister I would keep an eye on you," she told me. "Poor little Miss Pip. Not much fun up there with that old ogre, as Miss France used to call him."

When the Grange was empty again and Daisy had gone I was at my lowest ebb. Once I persuaded Miss Elton to let me run and look through the windows. When I saw the dust-sheeted furniture and the tallboy which looked like a human figure I wanted to fling myself to the ground and weep. I never went to peer in again. It was too heartbreaking.

I disliked Cousin Arthur as much as Francine had done. I hated the lessons I took with him. He was very fond of praying and would keep me on my knees for a long time while he exhorted the Almighty to make me a good woman obedient to my guardian, and full to overflowing with gratitude towards him.

I would find my thoughts straying to Francine and wondering what it would have been like if she had married Cousin Arthur instead of her Baron.

At least, I thought, she would be here.

Poor Aunt Grace was sympathetic but too much in awe of my grandfather to let it be known. My only solace in those days was my grandmother. She was the only real friend I had. Agnes Warden encouraged me to visit her often. I think she loved my grandmother dearly.

They say time heals all, and although that is not entirely true it certainly numbs the pain.

A whole year passed—the most melancholy of my life— and my only interest was the constant hope of news from Francine.

One day when I was in the garden I saw one of the Emms children staring at me.