Chapter 6

When Mrs. Wilkins woke next morning she lay in bed a few minutes before getting up and opening the shutters.  What would she see out of her window?  A shining world, or a world of rain?  But it would be beautiful; whatever it was would be beautiful.

She was in a little bedroom with bare white walls and a stone floor and sparse old furniture.  The beds—­there were two—­were made of iron, enameled black and painted with bunches of gay flowers.  She lay putting off the great moment of going to the window as one puts off opening a precious letter, gloating over it.  She had no idea what time it was; she had forgotten to wind up her watch ever since, centuries ago, she last went to bed in Hampstead.  No sounds were to be heard in the house, so she supposed it was very early, yet she felt as if she had slept a long while—­so completely rested, so perfectly content.  She lay with her arms clasped round her head thinking how happy she was, her lips curved upwards in a delighted smile.  In bed by herself:  adorable condition.  She had not been in a bed without Mellersh once now for five whole years; and the cool roominess of it, the freedom of one’s movements, the sense of recklessness, of audacity, in giving the blankets a pull if one wanted to, or twitching the pillows more comfortably!  It was like the discovery of an entirely new joy.

Mrs. Wilkins longed to get up and open the shutters, but where she was was really so very delicious.  She gave a sigh of contentment, and went on lying there looking round her, taking in everything in her room, her own little room, her very own to arrange just as she pleased for this one blessed month, her room bought with her own savings, the fruit of her careful denials, whose door she could bolt if she wanted to, and nobody had the right to come in.  It was such a strange little room, so different from any she had known, and so sweet.  It was like a cell.  Except for the two beds, it suggested a happy austerity.  “And the name of the chamber,” she thought, quoting and smiling round at it, “was Peace.”

Well, this was delicious, to lie there thinking how happy she was, but outside those shutters it was more delicious still.  She jumped up, pulled on her slippers, for there was nothing on the stone floor but one small rug, ran to the window and threw open the shutters.

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Wilkins.

All the radiance of April in Italy lay gathered together at her feet.  The sun poured in on her.  The sea lay asleep in it, hardly stirring.  Across the bay the lovely mountains, exquisitely different in colour, were asleep too in the light; and underneath her window, at the bottom of the flower-starred grass slope from which the wall of the castle rose up, was a great cypress, cutting through the delicate blues and violets and rose-colours of the mountains and the sea like a great black sword.