The yellow book, an illustrated quarterly. Vol. 2, July 1894
General
The yellow book, an illustrated quarterly. Vol. 2, July 1894
English literature -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Great Britain -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
She was bareheaded, for the covering of the tent projected a few feet
to form an awning overhead. The gentle breeze which had risen with
sundown, stirred the soft brown tendrils of hair on her temples, and
fluttered her pink cotton gown a little. She stood very still, with
her arms hanging and her hands clasped loosely in front of her. There
was about her whole attitude an air of studied quiet which in some
vague fashion the slight clasp of her hands accentuated. Her face,
with its tightly, almost rigidly closed lips, would have been quite in
keeping with the impression of conscious calm which her entire
presence suggested, had it not been that when she raised her eyes a
strange contradiction to this idea was afforded. They were large grey
eyes, unusually bright and rather startling in effect, for they seemed
the only live thing about her. Gleaming from her still set face, there
was something almost alarming in their brilliancy. They softened with
a sudden glow of pleasure as they rested on the translucent green of
the wheat fields under the broad generous sunlight, and then wandered
to where the pure vivid yellow of the mustard-flower spread in waves
to the base of the hills, now mystically veiled in radiance. She stood
motionless watching their melting elusive changes from palpitating
rose to the transparent purple of amethyst. The stillness of evening
was broken by the monotonous, not unmusical creaking of a Persian
wheel at some little distance to the left of the tent. The well stood
in a little grove of trees: between their branches she could see, when
she turned her head, the coloured _saris_ of the village women, where
they stood in groups chattering as they drew the water, and the little
naked brown babies that toddled beside them or sprawled on the hard
ground beneath the trees. From the village of flat-roofed mud-houses
under the low hill at the back of the tents, other women were crossing
the plain towards the well, their terra-cotta water-jars poised easily
on their heads, casting long shadows on the sun-baked ground as they
came.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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