The Father

A Pastel in Prose

He sits alone, gazing into the heart of the red-hot coals which cast their secrets in a flickering glow across the opposite wall, now nestling in the corner of some grey study of Whistler's, now in the fringe of a piece of tapestry, made weirder than the original design of Raffaelle. Over the arm of his chair lies his party coat, a black hermit thing which has enjoyed the obscurity of many years, but which he has worn in the earlier part of the evening at the special request of his daughter who wishes her guests to know him in some capacity other than "The Broker of Souls," his name along the street where the vestal virgins of Success tend the eternal flame in the Temple of Mammon. Indeed, he has an infinite preference for this blue velvet smoker's jacket of his, although it accentuates the haggardness of his features, and he clings fondly to his meerschaum with its strangely-carved bowl—how rank it is, the one thing he cannot afford to lose; how mellowed with memories ! A stray thought flashes through his mind, but he cannot grasp it and it seems to mock him as would a faun of the forest her pursuing satyr a-sprawl over a clump of pinewood.

He sits alone, thinking, thinking—of nothing, of everything, of his dead wife, with her mass of golden hair—he had called it, grimly enough, the locks-of hope—whom a tongue of flame lighting up the mirror had shown him in the living image of his daughter, radiantly twenty-one. Surrounded as she is by harlequin, pierrot and courtier in their brave array, she seems like a red sun which supports itself on the colours of the west. An Indian potentate, waltzing slowly, drifts past in the subdued glare of the lanterns and she catches mischievously at the ruby that clasps his yellowed turban, whilst his partner, a severe duchess who looks as if she might have strayed into the ballroom from the pages of "The School for Scandal" removes the cigarette from her rouged lips and scrutinises the hostess through lorgnettes of turquoise and mother-of-pearl. A watteau-like figure, flirting a peacock fan, whispers congratula page 32 tions and is swept away by a muscular Toreador; she, herself, had thought of playing an Arcadian role, but had decided finally on a design of Léon Banst—the "Costume de Narcisse,' which suited her sinuous limbs and her eccentric temperament.

He sits alone; the music ceases, and he shivers at his solitary thoughts. Why, he wonders, should the one noble influence of his life should have passed from him at that hour when the bitterness of expectancy was turning to the sweet of victory. Nothing had ever filled the void, nothing ever could; now that his ambition had made him by its realisation the most wretched of men. Willingly he would sacrifice of dreams for one syllable from her precious voice, but well he knows that the gifts are many when the gifts are late. His daughter had made no attempt to understand him, nor had he endeavoured to probe into the witcheries of her moods; she was too clever for him; she was of a different world, it would seem; in secret, he was afraid of her. Toward his son, he adopted a different attitude; he was simply a wealthy and indulgent parent, a fund which automatically refilled, an object as much inanimate as otherwise; he did not look for filial affection for he could see that nothing was more foreign.

He sits alone, watching the fire lose its former energy. The orchestra strikes up a new tune; his daughter comes through the room, leaning coquettishly on the arm of a huntsman, he splendent in green and brown, and the father exhales the warm perfume of her breast as she goes by. A sudden blaze mirrors his son, wine-glass in hand—an attitude that is rarely changed. Yet, never has the wine appeared so red—it appears almost immixed with blood.

The moments tread on the heels of the hours. The study of Whistler's is greyer still and the tapestry is only darkness Long since the embers have smouldered out, imparting to the room an Arctic chill.

At last he has company, but the company is death.

Admidst great amusement, his son, ten yards away, wildly embraces the Statue of Learning, whilst she of the narcissus robe comes into the room, leaning on the arm of an awe-inspiring executioner, lightly talking of love.

—W.E.L.