The Story of a Picture | Page 2

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