In Sarah was the contradiction of a woman given over to a conscious,
self-fashioned life, in whom once had reigned the unconscious and wild
fervors of girlhood. Her mouth was long, sensitive at its points,
although the lips had flattened and grown less tender. There was a
responsive fire in her eyes although some chill had curtailed it, even
as the smoulder of her lips seemed dying out. Her expression--the gentle
gradation of all her face together--had weathered best. Here was warmth,
even strength. But as Sarah’s examining gaze fell, it found worse
fortune. Her throat had lost its tightness; its vague bagginess beneath
the chin was grey against the sun on her breast. And here too was
failure. Her bosom was no longer fresh, elastic. It bespoke weariness.
It lacked the quality that had always made her charming in Dutch neck.
So Sarah covered it quickly with her waist, ere a too poignant
recognition of her defeat here bore in upon her. For here, wishing could
not defeat her eyes. Her efforts might cast a glamor on her face making
her see afresh what once was there; but the drab dullness of her body
was beyond the scope of her illusion.
It was all obvious: the stiff angle of her brown petticoat, the long
rigidity of her back, the narrowness above her waist, the dry
impoverishment of her shoulders, the fleshless nape of her neck, the
unlit mass of her hair. And yet, a glimpse of her eyes as they went out,
half suppliant, half proud, to prove her worth, destroyed this
obviousness. For beneath the blur of sadness in which their glance was
bathed, there was a power of spirit, pregnant of miracles, if only the
man she loved had cared to call them forth. But after all, it was
inexorably true--the acknowledgment beat against what she chose to
see:--dismissed from the fair office to which she had been originally
called, thrown back upon a maze of service without the gift which had
transfigured it, she was still really young! In the tremor of her mouth,
the frightened passion of her eyes, flashed somehow forth a vision as of
one being buried alive.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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