by John Harwood
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 s
oftness, 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 PARK
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 daugh
ter 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.
