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Read Ebook: Sorrow in Sunlight by Firbank Ronald
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Ebook has 238 lines and 7894 words, and 5 pages
a, had disappeared. A Relief Fund for those afflicted had at once been started, and as if this were not enough, the doors of the Villa Alba were about to be thrown open for "An Evening of Song and Gala," in the causes of charity.
"Prancing Nigger, dis an event to take exvantage ob; dis not a lil t'ing love to be sneezed at at all," Mrs. Mouth eagerly said upon hearing the news, and she had gone about ever since, reciting the names of the list of Patronesses, including that of the Cunan Archbishop.
It was the auspicious evening.
In their commodious, jointly-shared bedroom, the Miss Lips, the fair Lips, the smiling Lips were maiding one another in what they both considered to be the "Parisian way"; a way, it appeared, that involved much nudging, arch laughter, and, even, some prodding.
"In love? Up to my ankles! Oh, yes." Edna blithely chuckled.
"Up to your topnot!" her sister returned, making as if to pull it.
But with the butt end of the curling-tongs, Edna waved her away.
Since her visit to the Villa Alba "me, an' Misteh Ruiz" was all her talk, and to be his reigning mistress the summit of her dreams.
"Come on man wid dose tongs; 'cos I want 'em myself," Miami murmured, pinning a knot of the sweet Night Jasmyn deftly above her ear.
Its aroma evoked Bamboo.
Oh, why had he not joined her? Why did he delay? Had he forgotten their delight among the trees, the giant silk-cotton-trees, with the hammer-tree-frogs chanting in the dark: Rig-a-jig-jig, rig-a-jig-jig?
"Which you like de best man, dis lil necklash or de odder?" Edna asked, essaying a strand of orchid tinted beads about her throat.
"I'd wear dem both," her sister advised.
"I t'ink, on de whole, I wear de odder; de one he gib me de time he take exvantage ob my innocence."
"Since dose imitation pearls, honey,--he gib you anyt'ing else?"
"No; but he dat generous! He say he mean to make me a lil pickney gal darter: An', oh, won't dat be a day," Edna fluted, breaking off at the sound of her mother's voice in the corridor.
"... and tell de cabman to take de fly-bonnets off de horses," she was instructing Ibum as she entered the room.
She had a gown of the new mignonette satin, with "episcopal" sleeves lined with red.
"Come, girls, de cab is waiting; but perhaps you no savey dat."
They didn't; and, for some time, dire was the confusion.
The combination of charity and amusement had brought together a crowded and cosmopolitan assembly, and early though it was, it was evident already that with many more new advents there would be a shortage of chairs. From their yachts had come several distinguished birds of passage, exhaling an atmosphere of Paris and Park Lane.
Wielding a heavy bouquet of black feathers, Madame Ruiz, robed in a gown of malmaison cloth-of-silver, watched the dancers from an alcove by the door.
Their swaying torsos, and weaving gliding feet, fettered with chains of orchids and hung with bells, held a fascination for her.
"My dear, they beat the Hodeidahs! I'm sure I never saw anything like it," the Duchess of Wellclose remarked admiringly: "That little one Fred," she murmured, turning towards the Duke.
A piece of praise, a staid, small body in a demure lace cap chanced to hear.
"I've warned the lads," she whispered to Madame Ruiz: "to cut their final figure, on account of the Archbishop. But young boys are so excitable, and I expect they'll forget!"
"I see they're going to," Miss McAdam murmured, craning a little to focus the Archbishop, then descanting to two ladies with deep purple fans.
"Am I late for Gebhardt?" she asked, as if Life itself hinged upon the reply.
A quietly silly woman, Madame Ruiz was often obliged to lament the absence of intellect at her door: accounting for it as the consequence of a weakness for negroes, combined with a hopeless passion for the Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford.
But the strident cries of the dancers, and the increasing volume of the music, discouraged all talk, though ladies with collection-boxes were beginning furtively to select their next quarry.
And now the room echoed briefly with applause, while admiration was divided between the superexcellence of the dancers, and the living beauty of the rugs which their feet had trod--rare rugs from Bokhara-i-Shareef, and Kairouan-city-of-Prayer, lent by the mistress of the house.
Entering on the last hand-clap, Mr. and Mrs. Mouth, followed by their daughters, felt, each, in their several ways, they might expect to enjoy themselves.
Plucking at the swallow-tails of an evening "West-End," Mr. Mouth was disinclined to reopen a threadbare topic.
"It queah how few neegah dair be," he observed, scanning the brilliant audience, many of whom, taking advantage of an interval, were flocking towards a buffet in an adjoining conservatory.
"Prancing Nigger, I feel I could do wid a glass ob champagne."
Passing across a corridor, it would have been interesting to have explored the spacious vistas that loomed beyond: "Dat must be one ob de priveys," Edna murmured, pointing to a distant door.
"Seben, Chile, did you say?"
"If not more!"
"She seem fond ob flowehs," Mr. Mouth commented, pausing to notice the various plants that lined the way: from the roof swung showery azure flowers that commingled with the theatrically-hued ca?as, set out in crude, bold, colour-schemes below, that looked best at night. But in their malignant splendour, the orchids were the thing. Mrs. Abanathy, Ronald Firbank , Prince Palairet, a heavy blue-spotted flower, and rosy Olive Moonlight, were those that claimed the greatest respect from a few discerning connoisseurs.
"Prancing Nigger, you got a chalk mark on your 'West-End.' Come heah, sah, an' let me brush it."
Hopeful of glimpsing Vittorio, Miami and Edna sauntered on. With arms loosely entwined about each other's hips, they made, in their complete insouciance, a conspicuous couple.
"I'd give sumpin' to see de bedrooms, man, 'cos dair are chapels, an' barf-rooms, besides odder conveniences off dem," Edna related, returning a virulent glance from Miss Eurydice Edwards, with a contemptuous, pitying smile.
Traversing a throng, sampling sorbets, and ices, the sisters strolled out upon the lawn.
The big silver stars, how clear they shone--infinitudes, infinitudes.
"Adieu, hydrangeas, adieu, blue, burning South!"
The concert, it seemed, had begun.
"Come chillens, come!"
"Adieu, hydrangeas--"
Hardly a suitable moment, perhaps, to dispute a chair! But neither the Duchess of Wellclose or Mrs. Mouth were creatures easily abashed.
"I pay, an' I mean to hab it."
"You can't; it's taken!" the duchess returned, nodding meaningly towards the buffet, where the duke could be seen swizzling whisky at the back of the bar.
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