It was a small pavilion, quite delightful in its proportions: a simple wooden structure, octagonal in shape, painted in soft blue and cream, with a dark green steeply pointed roof. A wooden rail ran around the sides at waist height, with latticework below that; above the rail it was open except for the posts which supported the roof. The ground where it stood was quite steep, so that the entrance at the back was almost level with the grass. As she came closer she saw that there was another entrance at the front, with steps going down from it. Below the rail on both sides, a sort of window-seat, heaped with cushions, ran right around; the floor was polished wood, and so were the sides of the window-seat boxes. It was all very new and bright; so much so that she could still catch the faint scents of fresh paint and polish. Strange that Caroline had not suggested they come here, and that her parents had never spoken of it. But perhaps she had wandered into the grounds of the neighbouring estate; even so, she knew that the Frederick's were kindly and hospitable people, and would not mind her stopping for a while in such a pleasant place.
Rosalind took off her shoes and settled herself along the window-seat at the left so that she was looking out across the slope and the hilltops. Now that the sun had come out, the afternoon was quite warm, and a gentle breeze began to play about her. She really ought to concentrate her mind upon the problem before her, but somehow it was impossible to be anxious here; she felt completely at home, and the cushions were wonderfully soft and comfortable. The pavilion was like… well, it was like that sunny dome in "Kubla Khan", though there were certainly no caves of ice hereabouts; and if she had a dulcimer she could play upon it, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the poet with his flashing eyes and floating hair, which reminded her that she too had once fed on honeydew, and drunk the milk of Paradise, so that she sighed deeply, and stretched out more comfortably and allowed her eyes to close, the better to hear the mingled songs of birds and feel the slight movement of air over her forehead, until after an indefinite time she became aware that the soft breeze was, in fact, a hand, gently stroking her hair. Its touch was so reassuring that she opened her eyes quite without anxiety; her first thought was that Caroline had followed her after all.
But though the resemblance to Caroline was plain, this woman who sat beside her was older, and thinner, and her face was drawn and pale and marked by illness. She wore, Rosalind noticed, an elaborate formal gown, in a fashion she remembered from her childhood. Despite the aura of frailty and ill health, the woman smiled down at Rosalind with maternal tenderness, and indicated that Rosalind should lay her head in her lap, which she did quite willingly, as if she had indeed become a child again. Somehow Rosalind did not feel the need to say anything, and the woman did not speak either, but continued for a little while longer to smile and caress her temples until, as if reaching a decision, she took something off the seat beside her with her other hand. It was a small volume, bound in brown and gold, and plainly new, for Rosalind caught the warm crisp scent of the paper drifting down to her. Still with that maternal smile, the woman opened the book at the title page, holding it so that Rosalind could read, without moving her head:
BLACKWALL P ARK
by
Rosalind Margrave
Rosalind knew exactly what these words signified, yet she felt no surprise and no anxiety, only curiosity as to what would follow as the woman turned the book away from her gaze, leafed forward a few pages and began to read aloud to her. But this was quite unlike being read to in the usual way, for the scenes formed themselves before her eyes, and the characters-principally herself, her mother, and Denton Margrave-moved and spoke as in life. Rosalind-the sensation was precise, though not easy to describe-was at first both within and outside herself as an actress in the drama, speaking the words and feeling the sensations, and yet also aware that she was safe in the pavilion, on a sunlit afternoon, with her head in the woman's lap, listening to a tale which, it appeared, she herself had written under her married name.
It began with her return to the house in Bayswater two days hence, quite determined to reject Mr Margrave. But she had reckoned without the extremity of her mother's response. When every other means of persuasion had been exhausted, Cecily Forster declared her intention of ending her life with laudanum that very night, rather than live another day with a daughter so heartless and unfeeling, so selfishly unwilling to surrender her foolish notions of love (which, unlike property and social position, could be guaranteed not to last), and to learn to like what she must otherwise learn to bear for the sake of her mothers and (did she but know it) her own future happiness.
There was an ominous quietness about this threat which awakened in Rosalind a sick apprehension of defeat, for she knew she could not live in the knowledge that she had, in effect, murdered her mother. In the strange double vision with which the tale unfolded, she witnessed her own capitulation, from her acceptance of her horribly elated suitor, through her vain attempts to suppress the repulsion that any physical contact with him inspired, to the wedding itself. There it became clear that Denton Margrave possessed neither friends nor family, for his side of the church was entirely deserted, whereas Rosalind's was packed with guests, many of them strangers to her, but all pale and mute. He had not even a best man; when the time came he produced a ring from his own pocket. The service somehow took place in dead silence; even the clergyman seemed appalled at the spectacle, and when Mr Margrave kissed her with his red, glistening lips, her senses were once again assailed by that charnel odour, whilst Caroline, as bridesmaid, wept soundlessly at her back.
There was no banquet. Mr Margrave led her out of the silent church, past the empty pews on one side and the thronged guests, still and white as statues, on the other, out to a small black carriage which was waiting at the door. This, he explained with an insinuating smile, would carry her to Blackwall Park for the honeymoon; he meanwhile had urgent business to attend to, but would be with her at nightfall. He handed her in; the door slammed; the coachman whipped up the horses and bore her away. So far as she could tell, the door had not been locked, but it did not occur to her to try to jump out; all volition seemed to have left her, and she sat devoid of thought or feeling through the hours it took the carriage to make its way out of London and down through the countryside. She looked out of the window, and saw what a traveller might expect to see, but the sights meant nothing to her, and the carriage never once paused in its journey until, after negotiating a long, deserted stretch of road through a series of empty fields, it turned in at a gate in a high wall and pulled up on an expanse of gravel by the front door of a large stone house.
Rosalind heard the coachman descend and come round to open the door; she alighted like an automaton; without a word, the coachman folded the step, slammed the door, leapt back onto his box and whipped up the horses, who clattered back across the gravel and out through the gateway. There they pulled up sharply; the coachman sprang down again, and swung the two high wooden gates closed from the outside, so that they came together with a thud and a clash of metal fastenings. The muffled sound of hooves and wheels resumed, receded, and died away to nothing, leaving her alone in the silent courtyard.