Artists -- Fiction; Fantasy fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Married people -- Fiction; Portraits -- Fiction
And then off they go, leaving the young man
alone, pacing backwards and forwards between
the door and the picture. There is but one lamp
left burning, on a small table near, and it is going
out. He picks it up and holds it nearer to see
the picture. But his hand shakes; one can hear
it by the tinkle in its socket of the ring that
carries an opal globe that screens the light. And
he does not see much, for he can hear, a long way
off, Madeline's voice and her mother's--a mere
murmur. Then the murmur flashes up a little
louder for a moment, and the voices of the Baronet
and the old General are bidding each other good-night,
a long way off. Then a girl's footstep on
the stair.
The tinkle of the lamp stops as the young soldier
puts it back on its table. That lamp will go out
very soon. But a log on the fire, that seemed dead,
breaks out in a blaze, and all the shadows it makes
on the walls leap and dance in its flicker. For the
lamp is making haste to die.
That is a timid touch upon the handle of the door.
The young soldier's face of expectation is a sight to
see, a sight to remember. His one hand is bearing
on the table where he placed the lamp--almost as
though he were for the moment dizzy. Then, in the
wavering light he can see the loose, many-flowered
robe of Madeline, such a one as she wears for the
toilette, and her white face, and her cloud of beautiful
hair that is all undone. They are all there in the
leaping light of the fire, and he hears her voice that
says, "Oh Jack---oh Jack---oh Jack!" and can
say no more. And he, for his part, cannot speak,
but must needs grieve--oh, how bitterly!--for the
loss of the one strong arm that is gone. How he
would have drawn her to him! But he still has one,
and it is round her. And her two white arms are
round his neck as their lips meet, even as those arms
in the picture must have met round the neck of
_her_ beloved, even as their lips must have met, when
the dungeon closed again on the dead gaoler and
its prisoners, in that castle in the Apennines, four
hundred years ago!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account