The Story of a Picture | Page 3

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.
But frowns and relentless looks have not put to flight the remnant of
Hope in the heart of the Youth. "It is only a picture. Why should I
trouble?" he said.
But words are easy, and many questions are hard to answer.
The Youth had loved the face when first he saw it in the crowded
shop-window of the Town. So did he love it now. Change can not kill
Love, if Love it be. What matter to the Youth even if the eye had grown
cold and a Shadow rested about the sweet mouth? Can such things as
these make denial to the heart of a Lover? Aye, to the heart of a
Love-maker, but not to the heart of one who loves. There is no limit to
Love. A thousand nays can not check its course if true Love it be.
But again there is a change with my Lady of the Picture. Does the heart
of the advancing Easter-tide hold the magic spell? Those who chance to
see her now note it, and think it strange. "No," they murmur, "will be
her answer. But it is her Duty that bids her, and she must obey."
The silken curtain is torn down and the light of day completes the triple
story of this, my Lady of the Picture. The cold glitter is gone from

about the eyes, and the old soft light has returned, and yet it is not the
same as of old. The fatal Shadow round about the sweet mouth is but a
bare outline--a shade, not a Shadow any more.
Again the pretty white gown is loose--flowing and beautiful. The
thought of the grand old Dame, proud of her beauty and proud of her
ancient coronet, vanishes with the morning mist of the Easter-tide.
Again the dainty lace that clings to her slender white and flower-like
throat, softens and grows creamy and weblike, free from the
bleachment and crystallization of a while ago. Again the face is barely
more than pale. The deep color has faded away, leaving but a faint,
delicate trace, and a pinky tinge which reaches out until it kisses the
utmost tip of her perfect little ear. How deep, tender, and wondrous sad
those eyes have grown! Down in their dark depths her very soul seems
to tremble into sight. It is only one who has suffered who can have such
eyes. And, in truth, it is worth almost a lifetime of suffering to look
deep down into such eyes of sad beauty. She was but a pretty-faced girl;
but now, behold! she is a beautiful woman. And she is weary, O, so
weary with the long, hard battle within.
But Fear and Doubt still dwell and share with Hope a place in the heart
of the Youth. He finds it sweet comfort to believe that even if her
answer be No, it may come from a sense of Duty. Love is Love always,
but not so with Duty. For that which may be Duty to-day may not be
Duty on the morrow.
So the Youth of the Town longs for the coming of the morrow.
Who wrote, and sent to her with those sweet red roses from some
old-time garden, this, his Lover's letter, which she still is holding in her
left hand, once again just a trifle tremulous? Who has asked this
question of a woman's heart? Is he a man strong and noble, whom she
does not love, yet does not wish to wound? Or is it some one less
strong, less noble, who has her Love, although he be unworthy of it?
And does Duty bid her make denial, even though it break her loving
heart?

Is it Regret, Duty, Love, or What?
But still she gives no answer. And the Youth of the Town is still hoping,
doubting, fearing.
Ah, my sweet, sad-eyed Lady, what will your answer be?

Sherley Place, Easter-tide, 1884.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of a Picture, by Douglass Sherley
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY
OF A PICTURE ***
***** This file