CHAPTER X
ANDROMEDA
"Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead,
Straight at the castle, that's best indeed
To look at, from outside the walls....
And up, like a weary yawn, with its pulleys,
Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis;
And, like a glad sky the north wind sullies,
The lady's face stopped its play
As if her first hair had grown grey."—Browning.
The final closing of the door upon Hemming, as he discreetly retired, seemed to the bride to fill the gloomy room with reverberations. The door was not banged, yet she heard its echoing dying away like a murmur in cavernous heights. She had an illusion of being in some dark sea-cave, into which the tide would slowly crawl and swallow her up. Her feet were cold, as though the first shallow waves already laved them.
All through the dinner she had been putting a strain upon herself. She was now near the breaking-point. Gaunt was pouring wine from the heavy, stumpy cut-glass decanter into a wine-glass. She heard the lip of the bottle clink, as though his hand were not quite steady.
As usual in moments of stress her appetite had forsaken her. She had seemed to help herself to the various dishes, and had played with her knife and fork, so that Gaunt, from his end of the table, did not notice that she ate practically nothing. Before leaving the room, Hemming had handed her a dish of fine strawberries. These she felt she could eat. She took some cream, broke the fruit with a fork, and ate with thankfulness that she had some mechanical process with which to fill in this hollow pause before the commencement of what she felt might be definite hostilities.
The moments lengthened. He did not speak nor raise his eyes; but as soon as she laid down her spoon, he lifted his head, and said abruptly:
"Come here!"
Virgie jumped. The attack was indeed sudden. For a moment she wavered, then rose and moved noiseless down the length of the floor, along the edge of the table, until she stood beside him.
He leaned back, contemplating her. More than ever she looked like the princess in a fairy-tale. Her dress was cut and fashioned with the mystic skill that belongs to very few of the daughters of our race. It was subtle; it had a disturbing effect. There was a general impression of charm—elusive and faintly fragrant—of a finished work of art, from the curve of the soft hair to the satin of the small shoes.