“Bless Gawd, Sis’r ’Phelia,” replied her friend, with a chuckle and a great shaking of her fat sides; “bless Gawd, I disremember how much I did took in that ar pile; but Lord love yer, honey, I’se got some o’ that money yet.”
The two women engaged the rooms and prospered in their enterprise. The clothes under their deft fingers seemed to gain an added prettiness. They became the style; and no young bride on the Back Bay felt that she was complete unless “The First-class New Orleans Laundry” placed the finishing polish on the dainty lingerie of her wedding finery.
Tonight Mrs. Davis wore the famous black silk dress and gold watch and chain of ante bellum days, and Mrs. White was gay in a bright blue silk skirt and rose-colored silk shirtwaist. She said that she did not believe in any of your gloomy colors; for her part, she’d be dead soon enough and have along time enough to stay “moulderin’ inter clay, without buryin’ herself befo’ it was time.” The next arrival was the young student preacher from the “first square-back.” He was due at a prayer meeting; but when the time came for him to go there, he peeped over the banister and caught sight of Dora flitting back and forth in the entries, and then a whiff of Ma Smith’s famous white cake was borne temptingly to his nostrils and banished the last scruple. He satisfied his conscience by hugging to his breast the idea that his presence was necessary to give the festivities the religious air which was needed for Sunday evening. In his Prince Albert coat and high white stock and tie he entered the parlor early, so that proper decorum might be maintained. Two dressmakers from the “second-front and back” now appeared and were made very welcome by the family; and then Sappho entered.
Her dress was plain black, with white chiffon at the neck and wrists, and on her breast a large bunch of “Jack” roses was fastened. With modest self-possession she moved to Mrs. Smith’s side, and soon found herself being presented to the occupants of the parlor. For a moment or two there was an unbroken hush in the room. Tall and fair, with hair of a golden cast, aquiline nose, rosebud mouth, soft brown eyes veiled by long, dark lashes which swept her cheek, just now covered with a delicate rose flush, she burst upon them—a combination of “queen rose and lily in one.”
“Lord,” said Ophelia Davis to her friend Sarah Ann, “I haven’t see enything look like thet chile since I lef’ home.”
“That’s the truth, ’Phelia,” replied Sarah Ann; “that’s somethin’ God made, honey; thar ain’t nothin’ like thet growed outside o’ Loosyannie.”
“Miss Clark,” said Mrs. Davis, during a lull in the conversation, “I presume you’re from Loosyannie?”
“My mother was born in New Orleans,” replied the girl.
“I knowed it,” cried Mrs. White, as she triumphantly glanced around the room. “Ol’ New Orleans blood will tell on itself anywhere. These col’-blooded Yankees can’t raise nuthin’ that looks like thet chile; no, ’ndeed!”
Two or three of the young friends of the family who lived in the neighborhood had now arrived, and the conversation became very animated. Then it was announced that a literary and musical programme had been provided. Dora played an opening piece, which was a medley of Moody and Sankey hymns; Will sang “Palm Branches” in a musical baritone voice; John contributed a poem, and two young friends gave the duet from Il Trovatore. After a little persuasion Sappho rendered the “Chariot Race” from Ben Hur in true dramatic style, and breathing so much of the stage that the Rev. Tommy James, the young theologian, felt that possibly he might have made a mistake in going into such hilarious company on the Sabbath.
“Now,” said Mrs. Ophelia Davis, “I’m goin’ to sing ‘Suwanee River.’ None o’ yer highfalutin things can tech that song.” Dora accompanied her, and soon the air was filled with Mrs. Davis’ ambitious attempts to imitate an operatic artist singing that good old-time song. With much wheezing and puffing—for the singer was neither slender nor young—and many would-be fascinating jumps and groans, presumed to be trills and runs, she finished, to the relief of the company. Her friend, Mrs. White, looked at her with great approval, and immediately informed them that ’Phelia made a great impression the Sunday before at Tremont Temple.
“The whole congregation was to sing ‘Where’s My Wandering Boy.’ ’Phelia had no paper to see the words—not as thet made any matter, ’cause ’Phelia can’t read nohow—an’ the gentleman next us on the other side, he gave ’Phelia a paper thet he had. The man wanted ter be perlite. Well, ’Phelia was thet flattered thet she jes’ let herself go, an’ thet man never sung another note, he was so ’sprised. After the second verse ’Phelia saw the distraction she was makin’, an’ she says to me, says she: ‘How’s thet, Sarah Ann?’ an’ I says to her: ‘That’s out o’ sight, ’Phelia!’ You jes’ ought ter seen them white folks look! they was paralyzed! Why, you could hear ’Phelia clean above the orgin!”
Meantime the young people in the room had gathered in a little knot, and were discussing many questions of the day and their effect upon the colored people. During a pause in the music the last remark made by John Langley was distinctly heard: “Yes, I must admit that our people are improving in their dress, in their looks and in their manners.”
“What’s that, John Langley?” asked Mrs. Davis, as she leaned forward to catch the words of the speaker; “colored people improvin’ in ther manners? I should think they was! Don’t yer fool yerself ’bout thet, now, will yer? The other night Sarah Ann and me was goin’ down to Beacon Street to ’liver some goods, an’ the car was crowded with people, an’ thar was a pile o’ young colored
