Still, as lives are lived after twenty, so the tale of those lives must be told; and, although eighteen years have gone, Phemie’s beauty has not quite departed with them—it is not a thing of the past to this present day.
She wears her widow’s cap, and the glory of auburn hair still remains thick and glossy, sunshiny and wonderful, as of old. It may not be the young hair that first attracted Captain Stondon, but it is a woman’s hair for all that—soft, luxuriant, beautiful as ever.
What more, you ask, what more? Oh! friends, we cannot both eat our cake and have it. We may not go through the years, and enjoy them, we may live through the years, and learn experience out of them, and remain just as we were at the beginning.
How would you wish it to be? We came upon her first a girl—a farmer’s adopted daughter—dressed in a large-patterned, faded gown—in a coarse straw bonnet—unacquainted with the usages of society—a child of the hills, who had her dreams of fortune, and admiration, and love, nevertheless, just like your daughters, sir, and yours, and yours.
Once again you look upon her, but draw back, declaring this cannot be Phemie Keller! And yet the change which seems so wonderful to you has come gradually upon her, and it is the past which seems to her incredible, rather than the present.
A self-possessed and still beautiful woman—a saint rather then a Hebe—with lilies abiding in her pure face rather than roses—with features regular and perfect as of old.
Should you not like that face to be near you when you lie dying? I should. It gives the idea of all passion, all envy, all jealousy, all uncharitableness, having been taken out of it by the grace of God.
She still wears black. Till she is laid in her coffin, I do not think Phemie will ever cease to do so; but black, as Duncan Aggland somewhat cynically remarked, is becoming to her, and few people would wish to see Mrs. Stondon differently attired.
As for the rest, she has, as she had ever, lovely hands, and a stately figure, and a gracious presence; somewhat thin she may be, somewhat too slight for her height; but yet her admirers dispute this fact, and declare Mrs. Stondon to be perfection.
This shall be as you please, reader; for those who love Phemie best, affirm it is not for her outward beauty, they delight in this woman, whose story is almost told; but rather because there is that in her which they can trust and honour, which they have searched for elsewhere in vain.