Rosalind had imagined herself falling into her friends arms and telling her everything, but found that she could not. It had always been understood between them that Rosalind's mother was "difficult", but loyalty, and perhaps pride, had constrained Rosalind's confidences on this score. Nor had she felt able to disclose to Caroline the full extent or immediacy of the financial calamity hanging over the house in Bayswater, for fear of seeming to appeal to the Temples' charity on her mother's behalf. The beginning of her dream-wherever that might have been-seemed too strange, and the end too horrible, to relate. And so, beyond the comfort of her friend's embrace, Rosalind confined herself to saying that she had definitely resolved to reject Mr Margrave but was a little uneasy about how her mother might receive this news, and had consequently taken a wrong turning and wandered further than she had meant. To which she found herself adding, at the dinner table, that she thought she had seen a small pavilion on the far side of the wooded hill over there, without being specific about where she had seen it from, or how close.
"How very odd," said Mrs Temple. "You must have walked a very great distance, Rosalind; and besides, when I last walked that way, the forest had quite swallowed it up-what remained of it."
"There was a little wind in the trees," Rosalind ventured, hoping her hands were not perceptibly trembling.
"Fancy-I had not thought of it for years. Dear Walter was always so distressed, I had got out of the habit of mentioning it for his sake… it was built for his elder sister Christina-before you were born, Caroline. Christina married very young, and most unwisely"-Rosalind thought she detected a glance in her direction-"and her husband treated her cruelly. He made her-that is to say, she became ill-and came home to her family here. Grandfather Charles had the pavilion built for her there because she so loved the prospect from that hillside-it was quite open then-and she would walk there every day to sit when the weather was fine enough, until she became too weak. Walter was so devoted to her, and so distressed by the manner of her-by her death, he could not bear to speak of it, or be reminded of her-grief takes some people that way, men especially-and when Grandfather Charles died, not very long after Christina, the pavilion fell into disuse, though I should rather have kept it up myself, but poor dear Walter…"
"Rosy, you are very pale," said Caroline.
The thread was effectively broken, but Rosalind went upstairs more troubled than before. Caroline, plainly sensing that more was wrong than her friend was prepared to acknowledge, did her best to coax Rosalind into further confidences, but in vain. Despite her exhaustion, Rosalind lay awake for what seemed hours, and when eventually she did fall asleep, it was to find herself back in the walled graveyard, staring into a newly dug pit from whose depths something that shimmered with a bluish phosphorescence was rising towards her, so that she woke with a cry of terror and lay trembling until a soft light came into the room. For a moment Rosalind imagined that her angel had come back to comfort her, until she saw that the white-robed figure was only Caroline bearing a candle, but her friend stayed with her, and she was comforted, and repented of the "only".
Two days later,Caroline and Mrs Temple saw Rosalind onto the stopping train to London; or so they assumed. In fact Rosalind had arrived at a desperate, not to say foolhardy resolution: to visit Blackwall Park privately and determine whether it was indeed the place of her nightmare. She knew that the house was currently closed up and deserted, for Mr Margrave was currently embarked upon a long stay in town (the better, she feared, to lay siege to her affections) and did not keep two sets of servants. She was well aware of the dangers, but the compulsion had grown upon her until she could no longer resist it. Her recollection of the dream remained as vivid as when she had woken in the ruin of the pavilion; she felt as if a dark doorway had opened in her mind, letting in a freezing draught from the nether world, and that she would never know peace until she had found a way to force it shut again.
The previous afternoon, she and Caroline had set out to find the pavilion. Rosalind had proposed they retrace her walk across the fields, without saying exactly what she expected to find: the wicket gate was, on close inspection, still there in the corner of the field, but quite overgrown and decayed, and there was no path leading into the forest on the other side, only a huge bank of nettles. Then they had made their way around the foot of the hill, back across the river and along by the side of the stream Rosalind had followed the evening before, but without success. She had neglected to mark the point at which she had emerged, and either the grass had sprung back up around her footprints, or… but Mrs Temple had said there was, or had been, a real pavilion; she could not have imagined waking in the ruin of it. Yet no matter how far they went, the wooded hillside presented a dense, unbroken aspect. Rosalind could feel her friends anxiety on her behalf, and longed to unburden herself, but still the inhibition remained. She told herself she feared that even Caroline might doubt her sanity; in truth, the doubt belonged to Rosalind herself. No matter how often she cast her mind back over the dream-and she seemed to be able to enter and leave the memory of it at any point-the same bewildered confusion overcame her as to what had been real and what dream, or delusion, or apparition-a word she did not like to follow too far, for she could still feel the softness of the cushions in the brightly painted pavilion, inhale the fresh smell of new varnish, feel the weight of her head in the woman's-Christina's-lap; and if Christina could feel so palpably human and yet be a phantom, then why should the dark vision of Blackwall Park be any less real to Rosalind's perhaps disordered sight?
That was the question that most troubled Rosalind, and the one she felt she must resolve before she returned to London. She did not believe that she would find a row of tombstones; at least she was almost certain she did not. Yet, strangely, she half hoped that there would be some correspondence between the actual Blackwall Park and the place of her dream; some tangible sign, a thread to guide her through what was bound to be a painful and difficult confrontation with her mother. Rosalind knew, instinctively, that the slightest shrinking on her part might provoke the sort of display that had overpowered her in the dream; she did not, on reflection, believe that her mother would actually do away with herself, but was by no means confident of her own ability to withstand the threat. These thoughts preoccupied her throughout the journey to Bramley station in Hampshire, which passed without incident. The stationmaster at Bramley seemed puzzled, as well he might, by the young lady's assuring him that she was to meet her aunt and uncle at Blackwall Park, but nevertheless secured for her a dog-cart driven by a taciturn, grey-headed man who conducted her on the final stage of her journey-no more than a mile-in complete silence.