The Ghost Writer

The Pavilion

Of all places in the world, Rosalind Forster's favourite was Staplefield, a modest country house on the edge of St Leonard's Forest in Sussex, and the home, for much of the year, of her best friend Caroline Temple. Rosalind sometimes thought that wherever Caroline lived would seem the most desirable of all places, but there was no denying the beauty of Staplefield, with its light, airy rooms looking out over meadows and wooded hills to the south, and the sweep of the forest at its back. The two girls had been fast friends ever since their first meeting in town five years earlier, when Rosalind was fifteen and Caroline a year younger; they had been drawn together by a preference for solitude, strange as that may sound, over what usually passed for the delights of society, but were never happier than in each others company. Both were only children, and both had recently lost beloved fathers-George Forster and Walter Temple had died within the same year-and their shared grief had further strengthened the bond between them.

Seeing them side by side you could almost have taken them for sisters, even though Caroline was fair and delicately featured, whilst Rosalind's complexion was quite dark, almost olive. They had a way of walking unconsciously in step, and of addressing one another, at times, as much through a shared language of gestures and facial expressions as through speech. But their situations were very different. Caroline and her mother had only a few hundred a year, but were content with a quiet country life and occasional visits to town; and the house, which since Walter Temple's death they had shared with his elder, widowed brother Henry, had belonged to the family for several generations. Whereas, though Rosalind's mother Cecily lived in Bayswater in much greater apparent splendour, it was all done on debt, as Rosalind was only too anxiously aware, to the point where their fortunes now appeared to hang upon Rosalind's answer to a proposal of marriage from one Denton Margrave. It was to consider this proposal that she had come down to spend a few days with her friend in the country, but though the two were usually inseparable, a severe headache had kept Caroline indoors on the autumn afternoon upon which we meet Rosalind setting out alone to walk in the surrounding fields. Caroline had positively declined to be read to, and insisted that her friend should take – their accustomed excursion for them both, and for once Rosalind had allowed herself to be overruled, for she was restless and troubled, and felt that fresh air and movement would help dispel the cloud of oppression that hung about her mind and darkened her thoughts.

The sky was overcast and still as she left the house and made her way through the kitchen garden and across the lawns. She and Caroline had a favourite walk which took them through several fields and down to the riverbank with its canopy of willows, but today, on impulse, she turned right instead of left, in the direction of a steep, densely wooded hillside perhaps half a mile off. Even in the midst of her trouble, now that she was out in the open her old habit of dramatisation would not be stifled: she found herself mentally rehearsing scenes in which she rejected Mr Margraves proposal, the first on the ground that she had firmly resolved to dedicate her life to Art, the second because she had given her heart irrevocably to Another. Such scenes were constantly presenting themselves to her youthful imagination with the utmost vividness; yet they would generally refuse to manifest themselves on paper when she sat down, as she so often did, determined to begin the work that would at last free herself and her mother from all financial anxiety. And on the rare occasions when she did manage to scribble down one of these dialogues as it passed, it would shortly reveal itself to be a thing of such hackneyed banality that she would hasten to destroy it.

There was another mode of composition, very much slower and more painful, in which she strove to capture the essence of certain events, real or imagined, as precisely as she could, and here she felt she might one day acquire a very different sort of facility, if only she could stumble upon some great conception, something that would absolutely distinguish her work from that of the hundreds of authors whose novels crammed the circulating libraries and bookstalls and jostled one another for notice in the pages of the reviews. At least half a dozen times she had launched herself with high hopes into "Chapter One", and felt her tale to be well under way, only to see a darkness fall across the page, blighting her carefully wrought sentences until her characters lay down, as it were, at the side of the road and simply refused to go on. And then persons from Porlock, usually in the form of her mother, would call just as she saw her way out of the difficulty. There were certain pages, composed almost as if from dictation, with which she was entirely satisfied, but they seemed like the work of another person altogether, and remained in any case unfinished. No; the life of an author was certainly not an easy one. Rosalind had variously accused herself of indolence, of an absolute want of genius, and of lack of experience, the last perhaps excusable at the age of twenty; yet here she was faced with a proposal of marriage from Denton Margrave, and upon her answer depended not only her happiness but that of her mother, for they were poor, and he was rich, and Rosalind was very much afraid she might be on the verge of accepting him for her mother's sake rather than her own. Yet even as she struggled to determine the true state of her own feelings for Mr Margrave, there was a part of her that stood back, and watched, and said that if only she could make fictional capital of her situation, real income might follow, to free her from the jaws of her dilemma.

Their difficulties had begun some two years earlier, with the death of her father. George Forster had been a successful illustrator, but his income had barely kept pace with his wife's expenditure. Cecily Forster lived only for Society, and it was the great disappointment of her life that her only daughter had turned out to be so entirely her father's child, for Rosalind would far rather stay at home with a book than accompany her mother to the endless round of luncheons and soirees and dinners that lent meaning and purpose to her existence. Father and daughter had conspired to spend quiet evenings at home together, whenever he could spare the time from his work; Rosalind had often wondered, as she grew older, whether it was altogether right for her mother to be out so often, but to any tentative inquiry along these lines her father's invariable reply had been, "Your mother must be amused." Though her parents had seldom quarrelled within her hearing, their example had not been sufficiently happy for Rosalind to be in any haste to follow it. And when her father died, there might still have been enough money left for a modest existence in the country, but her mother would sooner have died herself than live in the country, except in August, and had insisted upon keeping on the house in Bayswater. Rosalind had done her best to encourage economies, and an uncle on her mothers side had helped, at first, but the help was now exhausted (other than in the form of a standing offer to move to his rectory in a small Yorkshire village), and it had become clear to Rosalind that ruin must very soon follow. She would willingly have gone out into the world and tried to earn her living, and was secretly resolved to do so if all else failed; the problem being that working as a governess or schoolmistress might keep them from starvation, but would still require, from her mother's point of view, an intolerable descent.

It had also become plain to Rosalind, despite her own continued grief over the loss of her father, that her mother ought to remarry. A marked distaste for exercise and a liking for rich foods had not improved Cecily Forster's figure, but she had kept her complexion, and with the aid of strenuous lacing could still look more like an elder sister than a mother. Rosalind had, indeed, felt increasingly obliged to play the part of parent to her own mother, who seemed to have grown more childish since her husband's death. "Look after your poor Mama" had been amongst George Forster's last words to his daughter, and to that end, once the period of mourning was over, she had begun to accompany her mother to various dances; besides, the house was lonely in the evenings now. Rosalind enjoyed dancing, but the young men in her mother's set seemed to have no conversation beyond riding and shooting, and to be positively unnerved by any mention of literature. She had, therefore, no great expectations of Lady Maudsley's ball, but in deference to her mother's anxiety to make the best possible impression agreed to have a gown made for her, though it was cut lower than Rosalind would have preferred, and she did not like the looks of frank appraisal she attracted, still less the feeling that she had consented to become a creature on display. It was on this occasion that she had met Denton Margrave.

Her first impression of him, in that initial glance with which we take in so much, was by no means favourable: he was fairly tall and well built, but his face was pale and slightly pock-marked; a clipped beard and moustache framed lips a little too red and moist, and a glimpse of discoloured, curiously pointed teeth; his eyes were a gleaming brown, but sunken, with dark circles deeply etched into the flesh beneath. His hair was almost black, shot through with greyish streaks, swept back and receding at the temples from a sharp peak at the centre of his forehead, Rosalind thought that he looked to be in his mid-forties, though he would later declare himself to be thirty-nine.

But all these reservations were, initially, swept aside by his being introduced to her as the Denton Margrave, author of A Domestic Tragedy, an "advanced" novel which she had recently read and admired, about the seduction, abandonment, and eventual suicide by drowning of a servant girl, and they were soon deep in conversation. She spoke, hesitantly at first, of her own ambitions; to her surprise he addressed her as an equal, seemed more interested in hearing her opinions than in delivering his own, and drew her out until she had quite forgotten her shyness. In answer to a question about the subject of his next book, he sighed deeply; his trouble, he confessed, gazing at her with an intensity she found both flattering and a little disquieting, was want of inspiration. He was, it turned out, a widower whose wife had died some years ago after a long illness, leaving him childless and alone. Rosalind's sympathy was naturally awakened by these disclosures, and by the end of the evening he had been introduced to her mother, and secured an invitation to call at the house in Bayswater, where he became a constant visitor.

Within a few weeks he had declared himself ardently in love with Rosalind, and asked for her hand, to which she replied that she could not possibly think of deserting her mother, and besides considered herself too young to marry. In that case, said Mr Margrave, he would ask only for her permission to hope, while assuring her that he understood their situation, and that her mothers fortunes would be as dear to him as her own. Rosalind thought that she had definitely refused him, but as he left he thanked her for giving him hope, and out of politeness she did not contradict him. That evening, her mother reproached her for trifling with the affections of such a delightful gentleman-and one, moreover, who possessed a secure private income. Cecily Forster would never ask her daughter to marry without love, but surely Rosalind could learn to love him, especially since the alternative was their leaving the house within the month and going to live on the charity of Rosalind's uncle in Yorkshire. Rosalind said she would think about it, but added rather intemperately that she wished Mr Margrave would propose to her mother instead of herself, which provoked a flood of outraged weeping, and ended in Rosalind's promising to reconsider her refusal. Denton Margrave renewed his offer within the week; Rosalind asked him for time to consider her final answer, and told her mother that she wished to spend a few quiet days alone with Caroline at Staplefield. Cecily Forster's expression had been like that of a prisoner awaiting sentence of death as she saw her daughter off in the cab to the station.

Rosalind was therefore compelled, as she climbed another stile under the placid and incurious gaze of the cows in the neighbouring field, to ask herself what exactly was her objection to Mr Margrave, for there could be no doubt of his ardour, and it was not fair to him to keep him in a state of uncertainty. To Caroline it was very simple: was Rosalind sure she loved him with all her heart? No, she was not. Very well then; she should certainly not marry Mr Margrave. The trouble was that Rosalind had never loved any man except poor Papa; she did not think she had any stronger aversion to Mr Margrave than anyone else, and his conversation was far more interesting than that of any of the young men her own age. It was very flattering to be told that with her at his side he could do great things, and that she would have as much time as she liked in which to write: they could divide their time as she pleased between his town house in Belgravia and a very pretty country house in Hampshire-she had not yet seen Blackwall Park for herself, but he had assured her that she would love it. Perhaps the force of his desire for her would overcome her reservations; and what, in any case, was the alternative? It was all very well to think of going out to work, but she knew she would hate being a governess or a schoolmistress, let alone a paid companion; she had had enough foretaste of that with her mother. The thought of being bound to some frivolous society woman to whom she had no connection beyond the monetary was intolerable to her; it would be like being sold into slavery, and besides, her wages would make no material difference; they would still have to leave the house in Bayswater and sell whatever was not already pledged to their creditors. Rosalind really feared that her mother would pine away, or worse, hasten her own demise, if confined to her brother's house in Yorkshire. She had had too much pride to ask Mr Margrave directly, but he had made it clear to her that her mother's future in London would be assured if they were to marry. Rosalind felt afterwards as if she had been negotiating terms with him, and did not like the feeling, for what, on his side, could he gain from marrying a penniless girl of twenty with, as it were, a dependent mother? That was what troubled her, if she was candid with herself: that, apart from his belief that marriage to her would bring him the inspiration he said he lacked, he so plainly desired to touch her, and lost no opportunity of doing so. There was something… he smelt of tobacco and spirits, but so had Papa… something else: she had no real sense of what "charnel" meant, but it was the word that came to her for-whatever it was that caused her to draw back from his embrace. Perhaps her imagination was overwrought; there was nothing visibly unclean about him; but the faint odour of decay had nonetheless continued to repel her.

But, on the other hand, could she really condemn her poor Mama to infinite misery because of an excess of fastidiousness on her part? So she framed the question as she set off through the last of the meadows separating her from the forest which now rose above her. For there was another thing she knew she ought to consider: that her expectations of love might be altogether unrealistic, and for a specific reason, which placed all mortal suitors at an absolute disadvantage.

It was a dream she had had not long after her eighteenth birthday; a dream unlike any other she could recall, in which she awoke to find an angel standing by her bedside. He-for so she thought of this seraphic being, though he seemed to her to combine in one body all of the perfections of male and female form-shone with a radiant light which filled the room, a light of such palpable sweetness that it brought to her mind "Jerusalem the golden, with milk and honey blest"; yet he was also visibly a creature of flesh and blood, who smiled upon her with such warmth that she sat up, entranced by the great white wings in their perfect balance of strength and softness, the curves of bone and sinew outlined beneath depths of snowy plumage so beautiful she felt she could gaze upon it for ever. He stretched out his arms to her and she rose effortlessly into them, as if he had given her the gift of flight, yet she could feel the floor beneath her feet, and the angel's heart beating against her breast as he took her up into his arms and kissed her. She could not, then or afterwards, think of him in any orthodox sense: just as he seemed to her both male and female, and more than either, so he seemed both Christian in the celestial light and radiance of pure goodness that shone from him, and pagan in his sheer beauty and the warmth of his embrace. As she kissed him in return, he folded his great wings gently about her, and she felt the light fill her whole being with sweetness until she cried out in rapture; and with that cry woke herself, alone in her dark room, with the taste of milk and honey fading from her lips.

Try as she might, Rosalind had never been able to relive the dream. She had never told anyone of it, not even Caroline, nor written it down, often as she had been tempted, and she had learned, painfully, not to strive to summon the angel in memory, but to wait for the rare moment in which the recollection came to her unbidden in all its strength and sweetness. Such a moment came to her now, in the quiet meadow, so vividly that she wept at the beauty of it, and knew for certain that she could never marry Denton Margrave. How, indeed could she ever marry anyone, for what man could love her as she had loved and been loved by the angel? Yet even if she were destined to die a maid, as the song went, in deciding against Mr Margrave she must still confront the immediate question of how she and her mother were to live; and she found herself murmuring a prayer, to whom or what she knew not, to show her the way out of her difficulties.

By this time she had almost arrived at the stone wall which divided the meadow from the oak forest above her. She and Caroline had sometimes walked this way, but they had never seen any path through the trees, and there were patches of nettles clustered thickly beneath the foliage, so they had always retreated. But today, Rosalind noticed a small wicket gate just at the corner where the two walls met, and upon making her way across to it saw that there was indeed a narrow path leading away into the wood. She tried the latch; the gate opened at her touch; and she was very soon out of sight of the meadow, following the path as it wound its way upwards in the dim light that filtered through the leaves overhead.

The path seemed to have been cleared quite recently, for the clumps of nettles rose up on each side, leaving just enough room for her to pass between them without catching her dress. As she made her way between the tall, mossy trunks of the oaks, she became aware that it was very quiet in the wood. Even the distant calling of birds seemed muted, and Rosalind began to wonder whether she might not be wise to turn back. What if she were to meet… well, someone who ought not to be here? A rabbit or hare darting across the path set her heart beating very fast, but curiosity drew her on until the slope began to diminish, and then to level and fall away and quite suddenly the path swerved around the trunk of a huge tree and brought her out of the cool, damp, bracken-scented air of the forest onto a green, sunlit hillside. It was, indeed, almost like a park, for the grass was clipped short and even, quite unlike the tussocky fields she had crossed before. Away to the south she could see distant fields and cottages, and the slopes of other wooded hills, and even fancifully imagine a glimpse of the far-off sea. The clearing below her ran for several hundred yards downhill before the forest began again; here and there a large oak tree had been left to shade the prospect; and as she stepped out into the sunlight, her attention was caught and held by something a little way down the slope and to her right, which had been partly concealed by the nearest of these trees.

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.

Sensation flooded back to her like cold water flung upon a sleeper. All consciousness of the pavilion was gone; she was here and nowhere else, the wife of Mr Margrave, and clad, she realised for the first time, in a wedding dress which was no longer white but a drab, rusty black. Perhaps it had always been black; she could not recall. The horror of her position grew upon her until she feared she would faint. She had been mad to surrender to her mothers threat-better to have swallowed the laudanum herself than come here. She looked frantically about the courtyard, but the smooth, high wall enclosed her on three sides, the front of the house on the other. There were no handholds anywhere along the wall, and nothing that she could use to help her climb. The house loomed over her, three storeys high, its pale yellowish blocks of stone too smooth and the mortared joints too flush to offer any purchase for hands or feet. At any moment they would be coming to take her inside; at any moment Mr Margrave himself might be here. Under a lowering sky, the day was fading fast.

Then she noticed that the shutters were closed on every window of every floor, and that the front door stood slightly ajar. Still nobody came out; there was not the slightest sound from within; the house looked and felt deserted. To enter was more than she dared; she would surely die of terror; but, as another survey of the courtyard indicated all too clearly, there was no hiding place here, and no way over the wall. Could she stand pressed against the wall near the gates until Mr Margraves carriage entered, and escape while they were open? No; the coachman would surely see her, and then Mr Margrave would hunt her down. Trembling, she made her way across the gravel as quietly as she could, onto the porch and up to the heavy wooden door, and pushed without giving herself time to think.

The door opened upon darkness; the hinges creaked horribly. The house smelt of mould and damp. Rosalind's head swam with fear. In the dim light from the courtyard she could see the beginning of a passageway. Fighting off thoughts of being cornered and pounced upon, she gathered up her skirts and ran blindly through the darkness until she bumped against something flat and soft which moved away from her-a swinging door, she realised in time to bite back the cry that rose in her throat-and on towards a thin line of light which turned out to be, as she had prayed, another door, also ajar, that let her out into what seemed to be a kitchen garden, also walled, this time in crumbling red brick with jagged shards of glass embedded in the top. But this wall was lower, and it was possible she might get over, and anyway there must surely be a gate or door in it somewhere? The area, perhaps ten yards by thirty, was rank and overgrown with weeds: all except a plot away to the right below the rear wall. All of this she took in at a single glance, whilst trying to slow the terrible pounding of her heart which so confused her hearing.

Yes, there was indeed a door in the outer wall, in that far corner on her right, barely visible in the gathering gloom. She hastened along a weed-strewn path, feeling the hated gown catch and tear upon something as she approached the cleared area. But those were not garden beds between her and the door: they were graves, all quite new, and at the head of each mound stood a low tombstone. Even in the fading light the names upon the first six stones were plain: all women's names, and all the surnames his. The seventh grave was open, newly dug, with the soil heaped beside it and the stone already in place, and the name incised upon it was her own.

The smell of damp earth rose up from the pit; that, and another odour that drew her appalled gaze from her tombstone to the path behind her-to Denton Margrave standing not ten paces away. He was all in black, with what looked like a great travelling cloak draped over his shoulders, yet she could see the earth upon his clothes, for his face was lit from within by a pale blue light that shimmered and crackled in the air around him, glowing in the sockets of his eyes and in that terrible, insinuating smile. She began to back away; he did not instantly follow, but spread out what she thought were arms before the great black cloak revealed itself as wings, unfurling hooked and leathery as he launched himself upon her with a shriek that rose in pitch and volume until it tore at her throat and went echoing out across the hillside where she found herself in the pavilion, alone.

Rosalind was at first too much overcome by horror and relief to notice any change in her surroundings. But as her heart began to slow, and the fearful immediacy of the dream-as surely it must have been?-to recede, she became aware that the surface she was lying upon was very hard, and that the rail above her was weathered and cracked, like the posts supporting the roof, which was likewise no longer a lustrous dark green but drab and flaking and festooned with cobwebs. And something was crawling over her foot… She sat up abruptly, brushing various insects from her dress, and saw that the cushions had rotted away to shreds and tatters of brown fabric. The floorboards had warped and buckled, and grass was growing between them; lichen was spreading across the faded timbers of the window-seats. And the light was much dimmer, for the trees around the pavilion had grown, and new saplings had sprung up, and the lawn had vanished into a wild, overgrown tangle of long grass and nettles.

Bewildered, she looked around for her shoes, and was relieved to see that they, at least, were unchanged, for she was beginning to feel like one of those heroines in a fairy tale who wakes to find that she has slept for a hundred years. Where had the dream begun? She had only closed her eyes for a short while before the woman had appeared beside her… and before that she could distinctly remember emerging from the wood and seeing the pavilion new and shining on the sunlit slope

… no, that had not been a dream, it was not possible, she had walked all the way from Caroline's room without stopping… and she was certainly awake now. Rosalind stood up and looked about her. Weeds and long grass and nettles encircled the crumbling pavilion in an unbroken ring there was no path, and no sign of footsteps or trampling. She herself could not have got here without leaving a considerable trail; yet here she was.

Fear crept upon her, and a growing sense of loss and desolation; she had felt the woman's tenderness so strongly, in her touch, her smile; yet that gentle presence had forced her to confront the nightmare vision of Margrave, and left her alone with the ruin of what had been so beautiful. Rosalind looked up through the treetops overhead and saw that the sky was once again overcast; she realised that she was shivering not only from fear, but from the chill upon what was now late afternoon air. There was a fallen branch a little way off which would provide a makeshift staff to help her through the nettles. She knew she could not brave the forest path, even assuming she could find it again; not with that malignant apparition still hovering at the back of her mind. But how, then, was she to find her way back to the house? Her attention was drawn by a faint sound below, at the foot of the slope, which might be running water; if that were a stream, it might prove to be a tributary of the river along whose banks she and Caroline had so often strolled, and so lead her around the edge of the wooded hill to safety. Of course she might be led fatally astray, but she could think of no alternative, save waiting for darkness to overtake her.

A sit turned out, there was indeed a stream at the foot of the hillside, marking the boundary between forest and fields, into which she emerged a good deal scratched, with her dress covered in burrs and grass seeds. And though it was a long way round, by following the direction of the water she did, eventually, reach a familiar point on the riverbank, and from there proceeded mechanically homeward. But the sense of desolation at finding the pavilion so despoiled would not leave her; she felt almost as if she were to blame for its decay; yet how could that be? Trying to recall exactly where the dream had begun was like unpicking a piece of work in search of a nonexistent join; there had been nothing insubstantial about the pavilion as she had first seen it, new and brightly painted on the sunlit slope. She cast her mind back along the forest path, to the field in which she had remembered the angel; but found to her great distress that she could not now think of him without recalling the hideous bat-like figure with its loathsome smile; it was like watching black ink being spilt upon that pure white plumage, and feeling both responsible and powerless to prevent it. At least she knew for certain that she could never marry Mr Margrave… but then she recalled, with horrible clarity, her mothers threat of destroying herself, and the sick feeling that had grown in her; and the name upon the volume had been Rosalind Margrave: did that mean she was foredoomed to marry him? Yet the woman had seemed so kind, and smiled upon her so tenderly; and so her thoughts circled round and round until she arrived back at the house, very late, footsore and plainly distressed, to find Caroline, now recovered, anxiously awaiting her.

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.

The day was overcast, as in the dream, but milder. Though the road was not the same, there was something about its atmosphere that reminded her of the dream: it was flat, and for the most part straight, and ran through a series of fields which appeared, from the glimpses through the hedges, to be quite deserted; but perhaps it was only the drivers silence that made her feel that she had passed this way before. All the while Rosalind was watching for a high wall of yellowish stone, so that when the driver turned down a short avenue of elms and she realised this was Blackwall Park, her first reaction was a curious mixture of relief and disappointment. There was no wall; the house was built of grey stone, not yellowish; the windows were shuttered, but it had two storeys, not three. They pulled up on gravel, but brown gravel was common, surely, as was a front door framed by a porch with stone pillars: it was not the same front door, and it was certainly not ajar; yet she was suddenly very apprehensive. What if Mr Margrave had come down after all? She had placed herself in the most compromising position; it would look as if she had secretly sought him out… how could she not have thought of this? She had been mad to come here; and with that thought the memory of the dream pressed so closely upon her that the smell of damp and mould seemed to rise from the gravel onto which she found herself alighting, telling the driver to wait for her.

Her intellect ordered her to retreat; but her feet carried her along the gravel to the left, around the side of the house, barely noticing an expanse of lawn and shrubbery, onto a flagged path which took her around a conservatory and back towards the rear of the house, where there was indeed a red brick wall, lower than in the dream, partly enclosing a kitchen garden. This garden was quite neat, and not at all rank or overgrown; yet there was a path leading diagonally from a door at the back of the house, through the garden beds towards the far corner of the brick wall, and her feet were again compelled along it until she could see clearly that there were no graves or tombstones anywhere here. Rosalind stopped, confused, and began to retreat. As she did so, the smell of newly turned earth floated up to her from a nearby bed; and something caught at her dress. She glanced down. It was a cucumber frame, and on the corner nearest the path was caught a long thin strip of material; not from the blue travelling cloak she was wearing, but a drab, rusty black. In the same instant she became aware that she was not alone.

At the edge of her vision-for she dared not move-she saw Denton Margrave standing exactly where he had stood in the dream, and for an instant it seemed to her that the sky darkened over. She waited for the ground to open into a pit; the dream rushed back at her with such appalling vividness that she saw the blue light crackle about him, heard the rustle of unfurling wings, and then… it was like looking out of a fast-moving train which had swiftly and silently reversed its direction: the Margrave-figure shrank back into itself; she seemed to be drawn backwards through the entirety of the dream, all in perfect detail but at such speed that she had not drawn breath before she was back in the sunlit pavilion with the woman showing her the tide page of her book, hearing simultaneously the voice of Caroline's mother at the dinner table, and understanding, at last, what Christina Temple had come back to tell her.

The vision faded; the paralysis ceased; Rosalind's heart gave one dreadful jolt as she turned to face her pursuer, until she saw that he was not Margrave at all, but an elderly man in a frayed, grimy, threadbare suit of black and heavy workman's boots, leaning upon a hoe and regarding her with some bewilderment. They remained silently facing one another until Rosalind had recovered sufficiently to say, somewhat breathlessly but with a composure which amazed her: "Pray excuse me; I have come to the wrong house."

Staring out across the sombre fields as the train carried her back to London, Rosalind found her thoughts running beyond the impending scene with her mother, Yorkshire would be a kind of exile for her, as well, but she would have work to do. She had her tale to tell, and would find the right way of telling it. Much black ink would have to be spilt; the angel's pure white radiance might never be quite recovered; but she would remain Rosalind Forster, and would one day earn enough to set her mother up in London with a companion, and be free to return to Caroline and Staplefield. So she promised herself, imagining the pavilion restored and glowing with fresh paint and varnish, floating in sunlit air.