_A Dainty Trifle for my Lady Love_ THE STORY OF A PICTURE _By Douglass Sherley_ * * * * * John P. Morton & Co. , Louisville, 1884. Copyrighted 1884, By Douglass Sherley. * * * * * "Near my bed, there, hangs a Picture jewels could not buy from me. " * * * * * There was a colored crayon in a crowded shop-window. Other people passedit by, but a Youth of the Town, with Hope in his heart, leaned over theguard-rail and looked upon the beauty of that pictured face long andearnestly. It was the head of a pretty girl with dark hair and dark eyes. She wasclad in a dainty white gown, loose-flowing and beautiful. In her lefthand, slender and uplifted, a letter; in her right a pen, and beneath ita spotless page. She was seated within the shadow of a white marble chimney-piece richlycarved with Cupids, fluttering, kneeling, supplicating; with arrows new, broken, and mended; with quivers full, depleted, and empty. The great, broad shelf above her pretty head was laden with rare and artistictreasures. A vase from India; a costly fan from China; a dark andmottled bit of color in an ancient frame of tarnished gold, done by someFlemish master of the long-ago. Beyond all this, a ground of shadowygreen, pale, cool, and delicious. On the table, near the spotless pageand the dear pen-clasping hand, a bunch of flowers; not a mass of uglyblooms, opulent and oppressive, but a few garden roses, old-fashionedand exceeding sweet, blushing to their utmost red, having foundthemselves so unexpectedly brought into the presence of this prettygirl. This, in outline, was the picture. The dealer had written on a slip ofpaper, in large, rude letters, _Her answer: Yes, or No. _ It was a frameless crayon, thrust aside and somewhat overshadowed by ahuge and garish thing in gaudy-flowered gilt, which easily caught andheld the eye of the busy throng. The Youth passed on to his duty of the day with Hope in his heart. Lightgrew his heavy task, and the drudgery of his work was forgotten--he washaunted by the sight of that face in the Picture. The softness of theeye, the sweetness of the mouth, or something, made the Youth of thenoisy Town believe her answer would surely be--Yes. Now the Youth and the Afternoon Shadows together came and feasted on thebeauty of that Maiden's face. The Shadows, without booty, fled away intothe night. But not so with the Youth. In triumph he brought it to thefavored room of his own dear home; and always thereafter this Picturegleamed in beauty from out its chimney-piece setting of ebony and oldcherry. She was always pretty, sometimes beautiful, but not always the same, this my Lady of the Picture. She was indeed a changeful Lady, as thestory will tell. Those who saw her face when first she was given theplace of honor in the home of this Youth, with Hope in his heart, allsaid, and with one accord, "There is but one answer for her to make, andthat one answer is, Yes. " The Easter-tide growing old, and the Summer time new and beautiful, brought no change. The last light of each day fell on the clear-cut anddelicate face, gilded the dark hair with a deep russet brown, playedabout the sweet mouth--and was gone, leaving her with answer yetungiven. 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; andfrom that moment there was a change. "But it is only a Shadow from thefire-light glow, " said the Youth of the Town. But something withinwhispered, "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 almostinaudibly, "She is going to say, No;" with his own voice he made effortto drown the words of that fateful refrain. "It is the idle, spitefulchatter of some evil spirit. My heart is full of Hope, and I will notbelieve it. " But that night, alone with his book and the face over thefire, only embers on the hearth--_the Shadow was still there_. Buthe said that it was a wild and troubled fancy--"It is not, can not be anactual Shadow; women may change, but surely not pictures. " The next day Autumn repented of its wanton folly, and called out withSunshine and Brightness for the return of the dead Summer. The lightfell on the face of the girl in the Picture, but it did not lift theShadow. Nor did the dead Summer return to gladden the heart of theAutumn, 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 stepwas heavy and a trifle less quick, as he went down the street to hisDuty of the day. Again he passed by the crowded shop window. The dealerhad filled the vacant corner; but he did not see, and he did not care tosee, what was there. For there was now only one picture in all the worldfor this Youth of the Town with Hope in his heart; but something elsehad crowded into his heart, and it was--Doubt. He went on his way andabout his duty with this one hopeful thought: "The nightfall will bringa change, and the Shadow will have gone. " But each day the Shadowdeepened, and the Youth carried with him a more troubled and a lesshopeful heart. All those who saw the Picture, and who had seen itwhen first it came, now looked upon it with painful surprise, andunhesitatingly said, "Your pretty-faced girl over the mantel yonderis undoubtedly going to say, No. " Into the soft, dark eye there seemed to have crept a glitter, cold andalmost unfeeling. The fatal Shadow had hardened, but not altogetherstolen away the beauty of that sweet mouth. Even the loose-flowing gownseemed to have lost its easy grace, and stiffened into splendid andhaughty folds, fit only for the form of some grand old Dame proud of herbeauty and proud of her ancient coronet. The very lace about her slenderthroat--but a misty web of dainty and intricate work--seemed to havecrystallized and whitened, as if done with a sharp and skillful chisel. The pale, pinky tinge about the perfect little ear had deepened intoa more rosy hue, which had overspread the face--barely more thanpale--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 somewhattremulous look. The fingers of the other hand had tightened about thepen, hovering over that unwritten page. And, in short, she seemed readyto write the answer--what will it be? The heart of the Youth was full ofTrouble. Hope flickered up into an uncertain existence. Now the Picturehad 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 andbeloved 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 foldsof crimson, he fretted to return and look again for a change wrought outby his brief absence; but there was none. Hateful indeed the sight may have been of that changeful face, but ithad grown to him absolutely necessary, and more pleasant, indeed, evenwhen hard, cold, and unkind, than other faces not less beautiful smilingsweet unspoken words. He slept in a curtained space near by, and often waked in the stillwatches of the after-midnight, with the Hope in his heart, flaring upinto a flame and burning him with a desire for another sight of thatfickle face. Before the picture there hung a dim, red light, whichburned all the night long. It was a swinging lamp of many tangled chainsand fretted Venetian metal work. Once it had swung before an holy altarin an ancient Mexican town, where it had shed an unextinguished lightthroughout many years. It was a holy thing; so the Youth had thought itworthy of a place before the deep-set Picture of the chimney-piece--theshrine of his heart's treasure. Thus awakened out of troubled sleep, heoften rose and stood before the covered Picture, beneath the swingingred light brought--stolen, perhaps--from the sacred sanctuary of thatancient church down in the land of Mexico. Often, with Hope, Doubt, andFear 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 itsHopes--yet my Lady of the Picture has not changed. Still that samerelentless look; still that premonition of a No not yet said; still inher left hand she holds the letter; still in her right hand the pen, andthe page beneath it is yet guiltless of a word. But frowns and relentless looks have not put to flight the remnant ofHope in the heart of the Youth. "It is only a picture. Why should Itrouble?" 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 crowdedshop-window of the Town. So did he love it now. Change can not killLove, if Love it be. What matter to the Youth even if the eye had growncold and a Shadow rested about the sweet mouth? Can such things as thesemake 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. Athousand 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 heartof the advancing Easter-tide hold the magic spell? Those who chance tosee her now note it, and think it strange. "No, " they murmur, "will beher 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 thetriple story of this, my Lady of the Picture. The cold glitter is gonefrom about the eyes, and the old soft light has returned, and yet it isnot the same as of old. The fatal Shadow round about the sweet mouth isbut a bare outline--a shade, not a Shadow any more. Again the pretty white gown is loose--flowing and beautiful. The thoughtof the grand old Dame, proud of her beauty and proud of her ancientcoronet, vanishes with the morning mist of the Easter-tide. Again thedainty lace that clings to her slender white and flower-like throat, softens and grows creamy and weblike, free from the bleachment andcrystallization of a while ago. Again the face is barely more than pale. The deep color has faded away, leaving but a faint, delicate trace, anda pinky tinge which reaches out until it kisses the utmost tip of herperfect little ear. How deep, tender, and wondrous sad those eyes havegrown! Down in their dark depths her very soul seems to tremble intosight. It is only one who has suffered who can have such eyes. And, intruth, it is worth almost a lifetime of suffering to look deep down intosuch 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 thelong, hard battle within. But Fear and Doubt still dwell and share with Hope a place in the heartof the Youth. He finds it sweet comfort to believe that even if heranswer be No, it may come from a sense of Duty. Love is Love always, butnot so with Duty. For that which may be Duty to-day may not be Duty onthe 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-timegarden, this, his Lover's letter, which she still is holding in her lefthand, once again just a trifle tremulous? Who has asked this question ofa 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 lovingheart? Is it Regret, Duty, Love, or What? But still she gives no answer. And the Youth of the Town is stillhoping, doubting, fearing. Ah, my sweet, sad-eyed Lady, what will your answer be? Sherley Place, Easter-tide, 1884.