Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales and RomancesAllen, James Lane
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Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances
Allen, James Lane
Kentucky -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories, American
The passing of such a tragedy scars the nature of the penitent like the
passing of an age across a mountain rock. If there had lingered thus
long on Sister Dolorosa's nature any upland of childhood snows, these
vanished in that hour; if any vernal belt of maidenhood, it felt the
hot breath of that experience of the world and of the human destiny
which quickly ages whatever it does not destroy. So that while she
prayed there seemed to rise from within her and take flight forever
that spotless image of herself as she once had been, and in its place
to stand the form of a woman, older, altered, and set apart by sorrow.
At length her prayer ended and she rose. It had not brought her the
peace that prayer brings to women; for the confession of her love
before the very altar--the mere coming into audience with the Eternal
to renounce it--had set upon it the seal of irrevocable truth. It is
when the victim is led to the altar of sacrifice that it turns its
piteous eyes upon the sacrificing hand and utters its poor dumb cry for
life; and it was when Sister Dolorosa bared the breast of her humanity
that it might be stabbed by the hand of her religion, that she, too,
though attempting to bless the stroke, felt the last pangs of that deep
thrust.
With such a wound she turned from the altar, walked with bowed head
once more across the church, unlocked the door, stepped forth and
locked it. The night had grown more tender. The host of seraphic
cloud-forms had fled across the sky; and as she turned her eyes
upward to the heavens, there looked down upon her from their serene,
untroubled heights only the stars, that never falter or digress
from their forewritten courses. The thought came to her that never
henceforth should she look up to them without being reminded of how
her own will had wandered from its orbit. The moon rained its steady
beams upon the symbol of the sacred heart on her bosom, until it seemed
to throb again with the agony of the crucifixion. Never again should
she see it without the remembrance that _her_ sin also had pierced it
afresh.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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