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Page 22
She stared. Such beauty; and she there to see it. Such beauty;
and she alive to feel it. Her face was bathed in light. Lovely scents
came up to the window and caressed her. A tiny breeze gently lifted
her hair. Far out in the bay a cluster of almost motionless fishing
boats hovered like a flock of white birds on the tranquil sea. How
beautiful, how beautiful. Not to have died before this . . . to have
been allowed to see, breathe, feel this. . . . She stared, her lips
parted. Happy? Poor, ordinary, everyday word. But what could one
say, how could one describe it? It was as though she could hardly stay
inside herself, it was as though she were too small to hold so much of
joy, it was as though she were washed through with light. And how
astonishing to feel this sheer bliss, for here she was, not doing and
not going to do a single unselfish thing, not going to do a thing she
didn't want to do. According to everybody she had ever some across she
ought at least to have twinges. She had not one twinge. Something was
wrong somewhere. Wonderful that at home she should have been so good,
so terribly good, and merely felt tormented. Twinges of every sort had
there been her portion; aches, hurts, discouragements, and she the
whole time being steadily unselfish. Now she had taken off all her
goodness and left it behind her like a heap in rain-sodden clothes, and
she only felt joy. She was naked of goodness, and was rejoicing in
being naked. She was stripped, and exulting. And there, away in the
dim mugginess of Hampstead, was Mellersh being angry.
She tired to visualize Mellersh, she tried to see him having
breakfast and thinking bitter things about her; and lo, Mellersh
himself began to shimmer, became rose-colour, became delicate violet,
became an enchanting blue, became formless, became iridescent.
Actually Mellersh, after quivering a minute, was lost in light.
"Well," thought Mrs. Wilkins, staring, as it were, after him.
How extraordinary not to be able to visualize Mellersh; and she who
used to know every feature, every expression of his by heart. She
simply could not see him as he was. She could only see him resolved
into beauty, melted into harmony with everything else. The familiar
words of the General Thanksgiving came quite naturally into her mind,
and she found herself blessing God for her creation, preservation, and
all the blessings of this life, but above all for His inestimable Love;
out loud; in a burst of acknowledgment. While Mellersh, at that moment
angrily pulling on his boots before going out into the dripping
streets, was indeed thinking bitter things about her.
She began to dress, choosing clean white clothes in honour of the
summer's day, unpacking her suit-cases, tidying her adorable little
room. She moved about with quick, purposeful steps, her long thin body
held up straight, her small face, so much puckered at home with effort
and fear, smoothed out. All she had been and done before this morning,
all she had felt and worried about, was gone. Each of her worries
behaved as the image of Mellersh had behaved, and dissolved into colour
and light. And she noticed things she had not noticed for years--when
she was doing her hair in front of the glass she noticed it, and
thought, "Why, what pretty stuff." For years she had forgotten she had
such a thing as hair, plaiting it in the evening and unplaiting it in
the morning with the same hurry and indifference with which she laced
and unlaced her shoes. Now she suddenly saw it, and she twisted it
round her fingers before the glass, and was glad it was so pretty.
Mellersh couldn't have seen it either, for he had never said a word
about it. Well, when she got home she would draw his attention to it.
"Mellersh," she would say, "look at my hair. Aren't you pleased you've
got a wife with hair like curly honey?"
She laughed. She had never said anything like that to Mellersh
yet, and the idea of it amused her. But why had she not? Oh yes--she
used to be afraid of him. Funny to be afraid of anybody; and
especially of one's husband, whom one saw in his more simplified
moments, such as asleep, and not breathing properly through his nose.
When she was ready she opened her door to go across to see if
Rose, who had been put the night before by a sleepy maidservant into a
cell opposite, were awake. She would say good-morning to her, and then
she would run down and stay with that cypress tree till breakfast was
ready, and after breakfast she wouldn't so much as look out of a window
till she had helped Rose get everything ready for Lady Caroline and
Mrs. Fisher. There was much to be done that day, settling in,
arranging the rooms; she mustn't leave Rose to do it alone. They would
make it all so lovely for the two to come, have such an entrancing
vision ready for them of little cells bright with flowers. She
remembered she had wanted Lady Caroline not to come; fancy wanting to
shut some one out of heaven because she thought she would be shy of
her! And as though it mattered if she were, and as though she would be
anything so self-conscious as shy. Besides, what a reason. She could
not accuse herself of goodness over that. And she remembered she had
wanted not to have Mrs. Fisher either, because she had seemed lofty.
How funny of her. So funny to worry about such little things, making
them important.
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