Before she turned it she paused, and looked round at her husband.
He was standing by her side, with his patient face turned expectantly toward the door. She put her right hand on the key, turned it slowly in the lock, drew him closer to her with her left hand, and paused again.
"I don't know what has come to me," she whispered faintly. "I feel as if I was afraid to push open the door."
"Your hand is cold, Rosamond. Wait a little—lock the door again—put it off till another day."
He felt his wife's fingers close tighter and tighter on his hand while he said those words. Then there was an instant—one memorable, breathless instant, never to be forgotten afterward—of utter silence. Then he heard the sharp, cracking sound of the opening door, and felt himself drawn forward suddenly into a changed atmosphere, and knew that Rosamond and he were in the Myrtle Room.
CHAPTER V.
THE MYRTLE ROOM.
"BEFORE SHE TURNED IT SHE PAUSED, AND LOOKED ROUND AT HER HUSBAND."
A broad, square window, with small panes and dark sashes; dreary yellow light, glimmering through the dirt of half a century crusted on the glass; purer rays striking across the dimness through the fissures of three broken panes; dust floating upward, pouring downward, rolling smoothly round and round in the still atmosphere; lofty, bare, faded red walls; chairs in confusion, tables placed awry; a tall black book-case, with an open door half dropping from its hinges; a pedestal, with a broken bust lying in fragments at its feet; a ceiling darkened by stains, a floor whitened by dust—such was the aspect of the Myrtle Room when Rosamond first entered it, leading her husband by the hand.