Phases of an Inferior PlanetGlasgow, Ellen Anderson Gholson
General
Phases of an Inferior Planet
Glasgow, Ellen Anderson Gholson
Fiction
"How are you, Comrade?" said the man, cheerfully. He bent over, running
his fingers along the rough, yellow body of the dog. It was a vagrant
that he had rescued from beneath a cable-car and brought home in his
arms. His care had met its reward in gratitude, and the bond between
them was perhaps the single emotion remaining in either life.
The room was small, and furnished in a manner that suggested luxurious
comfort. It had been left thus by Father Speares, and the younger man,
moved by a sense of loyalty, had guarded it unchanged. Over the high
mantel one of Father Speares's ancestors looked down from a massive
frame, and upon the top of the book-shelves lining the four walls there
was the marble bust of another. Heavy curtains of russet-brown fell from
the windows, and a portiere of the same material hung across the door.
In the centre of the room, where the light fell full upon it while it
was yet day, there was a quaint old desk of hand-carved mahogany. On the
lid, covered by a white blotter, lay a number of unanswered letters,
containing appeals for charities, the manuscript of an unfinished
sermon, and the small black-velvet case in which the sermon would be
placed upon its completion. In the open grate a fire burned brightly,
and a table bearing an unlighted lamp was drawn into the glow.
The dog, trembling with welcome, curled upon the rug, and Father
Algarcife, throwing himself into the easy-chair beside the table,
stretched his hands towards the blaze. They were thin and virile hands,
and the firelight, shining behind them, threw into relief the lines
crossing and recrossing the palms, giving to them the look of
hieroglyphics on old parchment. His face, across which the flickering
shadows chased, assumed the effect of a drawing in strong black and
white.
Before the intense heat of the grate, a languor crept over him, a
sensation of comfort inspired by the firelight, the warmth, and the
welcome of the fellow-mortal at his feet. Half yawning, his head fell
back against the cushion of the chair and his thoughts stirred drowsily.
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