The Story of a Picture

by Douglass Sherley

The first fire of the Autumn crackled and glowed on the tiled hearth, and threw a Shadow on the face of the pretty girl in the Picture; and from that moment there was a change. "But it is only a Shadow from the fire-light glow," said the Youth of the Town. But something within whispered, "You are wrong; she is going to say, No."

Again and again the words repeated themselves, clearly and distinctly, "You are wrong! you are wrong! you are wrong!" Then vaguely and almost inaudibly, "She is going to say, No;" with his own voice he made effort to drown the words of that fateful refrain. "It is the idle, spiteful chatter of some evil spirit. My heart is full of Hope, and I will not believe it." But that night, alone with his book and the face over the fire, only embers on the hearth—the Shadow was still there. But he said that it was a wild and troubled fancy—"It is not, can not be an actual Shadow; women may change, but surely not pictures."

The next day Autumn repented of its wanton folly, and called out with Sunshine and Brightness for the return of the dead Summer. The light fell on the face of the girl in the Picture, but it did not lift the Shadow. Nor did the dead Summer return to gladden the heart of the Autumn, full of too late and useless regret. "No, I am not certain," said the Youth, touched with a Doubt. It was only a touch, but his step was heavy and a trifle less quick, as he went down the street to his Duty of the day. Again he passed by the crowded shop window. The dealer had filled the vacant corner; but he did not see, and he did not care to see, what was there. For there was now only one picture in all the world for this Youth of the Town with Hope in his heart; but something else had crowded into his heart, and it was—Doubt. He went on his way and about his duty with this one hopeful thought: "The nightfall will bring a change, and the Shadow will have gone." But each day the Shadow deepened, and the Youth carried with him a more troubled and a less hopeful heart. All those who saw the Picture, and who had seen it when first it came, now looked upon it with painful surprise, and unhesitatingly said, "Your pretty-faced girl over the mantel yonder is undoubtedly going to say, No."

Into the soft, dark eye there seemed to have crept a glitter, cold and almost unfeeling. The fatal Shadow had hardened, but not altogether stolen away the beauty of that sweet mouth. Even the loose-flowing gown seemed to have lost its easy grace, and stiffened into splendid and haughty folds, fit only for the form of some grand old Dame proud of her beauty and proud of her ancient coronet. The very lace about her slender throat—but a misty web of dainty and intricate work—seemed to have crystallized and whitened, as if done with a sharp and skillful chisel. The pale, pinky tinge about the perfect little ear had deepened into a more rosy hue, which had overspread the face—barely more than pale—with a deep color and a glow of emotion only half concealed. Ah, was it a look of triumph? was it the consciousness of power?

The left hand, holding her Lover's letter, had lost its somewhat tremulous look. The fingers of the other hand had tightened about the pen, hovering over that unwritten page. And, in short, she seemed ready to write the answer—what will it be? The heart of the Youth was full of Trouble. Hope flickered up into an uncertain existence. Now the Picture had grown hateful to his sight; so a silken curtain, in crimson folds, clung against and hid away the face of this Changeful Lady.

But no sooner was the curtain drawn, hiding from sight the lovely and beloved face, but an all-powerful desire brought him back again, and lo! the curtain was rudely thrust aside; but alas! there was no change.

When away from his room and the siren-like face behind its silken folds of crimson, he fretted to return and look again for a change wrought out by his brief absence; but there was none.

Hateful indeed the sight may have been of that changeful face, but it had grown to him absolutely necessary, and more pleasant, indeed, even when hard, cold, and unkind, than other faces not less beautiful smiling sweet unspoken words.

He slept in a curtained space near by, and often waked in the still watches of the after-midnight, with the Hope in his heart, flaring up into a flame and burning him with a desire for another sight of that fickle face. Before the picture there hung a dim, red light, which burned all the night long. It was a swinging lamp of many tangled chains and fretted Venetian metal work. Once it had swung before an holy altar in an ancient Mexican town, where it had shed an unextinguished light throughout many years. It was a holy thing; so the Youth had thought it worthy of a place before the deep-set Picture of the chimney-piece—the shrine of his heart's treasure. Thus awakened out of troubled sleep, he often rose and stood before the covered Picture, beneath the swinging red light brought—stolen, perhaps—from the sacred sanctuary of that ancient church down in the land of Mexico. Often, with Hope, Doubt, and Fear in his heart, he would turn away from before the untouched curtain. "Useless, useless, useless," would be the burden of his thought.

The third Easter-tide comes with its brightness, its flowers, and its Hopes—yet my Lady of the Picture has not changed. Still that same relentless look; still that premonition of a No not yet said; still in her left hand she holds the letter; still in her right hand the pen, and the page beneath it is yet guiltless of a word.