My acquaintance with Mrs. Angel dates from the hour she called upon
me, in response to my application at a ladies' furnishing store for a
seamstress; and the growth of the acquaintance, as well as the somewhat
peculiar character which it assumed, was doubtless due to the interest
I betrayed in the history of her early life, as related to me at
different times, frankly and with unconscious pathos and humor.
Her parents were of the "poor white" class and lived in some remote
Virginian wild, whose precise locality, owing to the narrator's vague
geographical knowledge, I could never ascertain. She was the oldest
of fifteen children, all of whom were brought up without the first
rudiments of an education, and ruled over with brutal tyranny by a
father whose sole object in life was to vie with his neighbors in
the consumption of "black jack" and corn whiskey, and to extract the
maximum of labor from his numerous progeny,--his paternal affection
finding vent in the oft-repeated phrase, "Durn 'em, I wish I could
sell some on 'em!" The boys, as they became old enough to realize
the situation, ran away in regular succession;--the girls, in the
forlorn hope of exchanging a cruel master for one less so, drifted
into matrimony at the earliest possible age. Mrs. Angel, at the age of
sixteen, married a man of her own class, who found his way in course of
time to Washington and became a day-laborer in the Navy Yard.
It would be interesting, if practicable, to trace the subtle laws by
which this woman became possessed of a beauty of feature and form,
and color, which a youth spent in field-work, twenty subsequent years
of maternity and domestic labor, and a life-long diet of the coarsest
description, have not succeeded in obliterating. Blue, heavily fringed
eyes, wanting only intelligence to make them really beautiful; dark,
wavy hair, delicately formed ears, taper fingers, and a fair, though
faded complexion, tell of a youth whose beauty must have been striking.
She seldom alluded to her husband at all, and never by name, the brief
pronoun "he" answering all purposes, and this invariably uttered in
a tone of resentment and contempt, which the story of his wooing
sufficiently accounts for.
"His folks lived over t'other side the mount'n," she related, "an' he
was dead sot an' _de_-termined he'd have me. I never did see a man so
sot! The Lord knows why! He used ter foller me 'round an' set an' set,
day in an' day out. I kep' a-tellin' of him I couldn't a-bear him, an'
when I said it, he'd jess look at me an' kind o' grin like, an' never
say nothin', but keep on a-settin' 'roun'. Mother _she_ didn't dare say
a word, 'cause she knowed father 'lowed I should have him whether or
no. ''Taint no use, Calline,' she'd say, 'ye might as well give up fust
as last.' Then he got ter comin' every day, an' he an' father jess sot
an' smoked, an' drunk whiskey, an' _he_ a-starin' at me all the time as
if he was crazy, like. Bimeby I took ter hidin' when he come. Sometimes
I hid in the cow-shed, an' sometimes in the woods, an' waited till he'd
cl'ared out, an' then when I come in the house, father he'd out with
his cowhide, an' whip me. 'I'll teach ye,' he'd say, swearin' awful,
'I'll teach ye ter honor yer father an' mother, as brought ye inter the
world, ye hussy!' An' after a while, what with that, an' seein' mother
a-cryin' 'roun', I begun ter git enough of it, an' at last I got so I
didn't keer. So I stood up an' let him marry me; but," she added, with
smouldering fire in her faded blue eyes, "I 'lowed I'd make him sorry
fur it, an' I reckon I _hev_! But he won't let on. Ketch him!"
This, and her subsequent history, her valorous struggle with poverty,
her industry and tidiness, her intense, though blindly foolish, love
for her numerous offspring, and a general soft-heartedness toward
all the world, except "niggers" and the father of her children,
interested me in the woman to an extent which has proved disastrous
to my comfort--and pocket. I cannot tell how it came about, but at an
early period of our acquaintance Mrs. Angel began to take a lively
interest in my wardrobe, not only promptly securing such articles as
I had already condemned as being too shabby, even for the wear of an
elderly Government employé, but going to the length of suggesting the
laying aside of others which I had modestly deemed capable of longer
service. From this, it was but a step to placing a species of lien upon
all newly purchased garments, upon which she freely commented, with a
view to their ultimate destination. It is not pleasant to go through
the world with the feeling of being mortgaged as to one's apparel, but
though there have been moments when I have meditated rebellion, I have
never been able to decide upon any practicable course of action.
I cannot recall the time when Mrs. Angel left my room without a package
of some description. She carries with her always a black satchel,
possessing the capacity and insatiability of a conjurer's bag, but,
unlike that article, while almost anything may be gotten into it,
nothing ever comes out of it.
Her power of absorption was simply marvellous. Fortunately, however,
the demon of desire which possesses her may be appeased, all other
means failing, with such trifles as a row of pins, a few needles, or
even stale newspapers.
"He reads 'em," she explained, concerning the last, "an' then I dresses
my pantry shelves with 'em."
"It is a wonder your husband never taught _you_ to read," I said once,
seeing how wistfully she was turning the pages of a "Harper's Weekly."
The look of concentrated hate flashed into her face again.
"He 'lows a woman ain't got no call ter read," she answered, bitterly.
"I allers laid off to larn, jess ter spite him, but I ain't never got
to it yit."
I came home from my office one day late in autumn, to find Mrs. Angel
sitting by the fire in my room, which, as I board with friends, is
never locked. Her customary trappings of woe were enhanced by a
new veil of cheap crape which swept the floor, and her round, rosy
visage wore an expression of deep, unmitigated grief. A patch of
_poudre de riz_ ornamented her tip-tilted nose, a delicate aroma of
Farina cologne-water pervaded the atmosphere, and the handle of my
ivory-backed hair-brush protruded significantly from one of the drawers
of my dressing-bureau.
I glanced at her apprehensively. My first thought was that the
somewhat mythical personage known as "he" had finally shuffled himself
out of existence. I approached her respectfully.
"Good-evenin'," she murmured. "Pretty day!"
"How do you do, Mrs. Angel?" I responded, sympathetically. "You seem to
be in trouble. What has happened?"
"A heap!" was the dismal answer. "Old Mr. Lawson's dead!"
"Ah! Was he a near relative of yours?" I inquired.
"Well," she answered,--somewhat dubiously, I thought,--"not _so_ nigh.
He wasn't rightly _no kin_. His fust wife's sister married my oldest
sister's husband's brother--but we's allers _knowed_ him, an' he was
allers a-comin' an' a-goin' amongst us _like_ one o' the family. An' if
ever they _was_ a saint he was one!"
Here she wiped away a furtive tear with a new black-bordered kerchief.
I was silent, feeling any expression of sympathy on my part inadequate
to the occasion.
"He was _prepared_," she resumed, presently, "ef ever a man was. He got
religion about forty year ago--that time all the stars fell down, ye
know. He'd been ter see his gal, an' was goin' home late, and the stars
was a-fallin', and he was took then. He went into a barn, an' begun
prayin', an' he ain't never stopped sence."
Again the black-bordered handkerchief was brought into requisition.
"How are the children?" I ventured, after a pause.
"Po'ly!" was the discouraging answer. "Jinny an' Rosy an' John Henry
has all had the croup. I've been a-rubbin' of 'em with Radway's Relief
an' British ile, an' a-givin' on it to 'em internal, fur two days an'
nights runnin'. Both bottles is empty now, and the Lord knows where the
next is ter come from, fur we ain't got no credit at the 'pothecary's.
_He's_ out o' work ag'in, an' they ain't a stick o' wood in the shed,
an' the grocer-man says he wants some money putty soon. Ef my _hens_
would only lay----"
"It was unfortunate," I could not help saying, with a glance at the
veil and handkerchief, "that you felt obliged to purchase additional
mourning just when things were looking so badly."
She gave me a sharp glance, a glow of something like resentment crept
into her face.
"All our family puts on black fur kin, ef it _ain't_ so nigh!" she
remarked with dignity.
A lineal descendant of an English earl could not have uttered the words
"our family" with more hauteur. I felt the rebuke.
"Besides," she added, naïvely, "the store-keeper _trusted_ me fur 'em."
"If only Phenie could git work," she resumed, presently, giving me
a peculiar side-glance with which custom had rendered me familiar,
it being the invariable precursor of a request, or a sly suggestion.
"She's only fifteen, an' she ain't over 'n' above _strong_, but she's
got learnin'. She only left off school a year ago come spring, an'
she can do right smart. There's Sam Weaver's gal, as lives nex' do'
to us, _she's_ got a place in the printin'-office where she 'arns her
twenty-five dollars a month, an' she never seen the day as she could
read like Phenie, an' she's ugly as sin, too."
It occurred to me just here that I had heard of an additional force
being temporarily required in the Printing Bureau. I resolved to
use what influence I possessed with a prominent official, a friend
of "better days," to obtain employment for "Phenie," for, with all
the poor woman's faults and weaknesses, I knew that her distress was
genuine.
"I will see if I can find some employment for your daughter," I said,
after reflecting a few moments. "Come here Saturday evening, and I will
let you know the result."
I knew, by the sudden animation visible in Mrs. Angel's face, that this
was what she had hoped for and expected.
* * * * *
When I came from the office on Saturday evening, I found Mrs. Angel
and her daughter awaiting me. She had often alluded to Phenie with
maternal pride, as a "good-lookin' gal," but I was entirely unprepared
for such a vision as, at her mother's bidding, advanced to greet me. It
occurred to me that Mrs. Angel herself must have once looked somewhat
as Phenie did now, except as to the eyes. That much-contemned "he" must
have been responsible for the large, velvety black eyes which met mine
with such a timid, deprecating glance.
She was small and perfectly shaped, and there was enough of vivid
coloring and graceful curve about her to have furnished a dozen
ordinary society belles. Her hair fell loosely to her waist in the then
prevailing fashion, a silken, wavy, chestnut mass. A shabby little
hat was perched on one side her pretty head, and the tightly fitting
basque of her dress of cheap faded blue exposed her white throat almost
too freely. I was glad that I could answer the anxious pleading of
those eyes in a manner not disappointing. The girl's joy was a pretty
thing to witness as I told her mother that my application had been
successful, and that Phenie would be assigned work on Monday.
"_He_ 'lowed she wouldn't git in," remarked Mrs. Angel, triumphantly,
"an' as fur Columbus, _he_ didn't want her to git in no how."
"Oh _maw_!" interrupted Phenie, blushing like a June rose.
"Oh, what's the use!" continued her mother. "Columbus says he wouldn't
'low it nohow ef he'd got a good stan'. He says as soon as ever he gits
inter business fur hisself----"
"Oh _maw_!" interposed Phenie again, going to the window to hide her
blushes.
"Columbus is a butcher by trade," went on Mrs. Angel, in a confidential
whisper, "an' Phenie, she don't like the idee of it. I tell her
she's foolish, but she don't like it. I reckon it's readin' them
story-papers, all about counts, an' lords, an' sich, as has set her
agin' butcherin'. But Columbus, he jess loves the groun' she walks on,
an' he's a-goin' ter hucksterin' as soon as ever he can git a good
stan'."
I expressed a deep interest in the success of Columbus, and rescued
Phenie from her agony of confusion by some remarks upon other themes of
a less personal nature. Soon after, mother and daughter departed.
Eight o'clock Monday morning brought Phenie, looking elated yet
nervous. She wore the faded blue dress, but a smart "butterfly-bow"
of rose-pink was perched in her shining hair, and another was at her
throat. As we entered the Treasury building, I saw that she turned pale
and trembled as if with awe, and as we passed on through the lofty,
resounding corridors, and up the great flight of steps, she panted like
a hunted rabbit.
At the Bureau I presented the appointment-card I had received. The
superintendent gave it a glance, scrutinized Phenie closely, beckoned
to a minor power, and in a moment the new employé was conducted from my
sight. Just as she disappeared behind the door leading into the grimy,
noisy world of printing-presses, Phenie gave me a glance over her
shoulder. Such a trembling, scared sort of a glance! I felt as if I had
just turned a young lamb into a den of ravening wolves.
Curiously enough, from this day the fortunes of the house of Angel
began to mend. "He" was reinstated in "the Yard," the oldest boy
began a thriving business in the paper-selling line, and Mrs. Angel
herself being plentifully supplied with plain sewing, the family were
suddenly plunged into a state of affluence which might well have upset
a stronger intellect than that of its maternal head. Her lunacy took
the mild and customary form of "shopping." Her trips to the Avenue
(by which Pennsylvania Avenue is presupposed) and to Seventh Street
became of semi-weekly occurrence. She generally dropped in to see me
on her way home, in quite a friendly and informal manner (her changed
circumstances had not made her proud), and with high glee exhibited
to me her purchases. They savored strongly of Hebraic influences, and
included almost every superfluous article of dress known to modern
times. She also supplied herself with lace curtains of marvellous
design, and informed me that she had bought a magnificent "bristles"
carpet at auction, for a mere song.
"The _bristles_ is wore off in some places," she acknowledged, "but
it's most as good as new."
Her grief for the lamented Mr. Lawson found new expression in
"mourning" jewelry of a massive and sombre character, including
ear-rings of a size which threatened destruction to the lobes of her
small ears. Her fledgelings were liberally provided with new garments
of a showy and fragile nature, and even her feelings toward "him"
became sufficiently softened to allow the purchase of a purple necktie
and an embroidered shirt-bosom for his adornment.
"He ain't not ter say _so_ ugly, of a Sunday, when he gits the smudge
washed off," she remarked, in connection with the above.
"It must have been a great satisfaction to you," I suggested (not
without a slight tinge of malice), "to be able to pay off the grocer
and the dry-goods merchant."
Mrs. Angel's spirits were visibly dampened by this unfeeling allusion.
Her beaming face darkened.
"They has to take their resks," she remarked, sententiously, after a
long pause, fingering her hard-rubber bracelets, and avoiding my gaze.
Once I met her on the Avenue. She was issuing from a popular
restaurant, followed by four or five young Angels, all in high spirits
and beaming with the consciousness of well-filled stomachs, and the
possession of divers promising-looking paper bags. She greeted me with
an effusiveness which drew upon me the attention of the passers-by.
"We've done had _oyshters_!" remarked John Henry.
"'N' ice-cream 'n' cakes!" supplemented Rosy.
The fond mother exhibited, with natural pride, their "tin-types," taken
individually and collectively, sitting and standing, with hats and
without. The artist had spared neither carmine nor gilt-foil, and the
effect was unique and dazzling.
"I've ben layin' off ter have 'em took these two year," she loudly
exclaimed, "an' I've done it! He'll be mad as a hornet, but I don't
keer! _He_ don't pay fur 'em!"
A vision of the long-suffering grocer and merchant rose between me and
those triumphs of the limner's art, but then, as Mrs. Angel herself had
philosophically remarked, "they has to take their resks."
* * * * *
Phenie, too, in the beginning, was a frequent visitor, and I was
pleased to note that her painful shyness was wearing off a little,
and to see a marked improvement in her dress. There was, with all
her childishness, a little trace of coquetry about her,--the innocent
coquetry of a bird preening its feathers in the sunshine. She was
simply a soft-hearted, ignorant little beauty, whose great, appealing
eyes seemed always asking for something, and in a way one might find it
hard to refuse.
In spite of her rich color, I saw that the girl was frail, and knowing
that she had a long walk after leaving the cars, I arranged for her to
stay with me overnight when the weather was severe, and she often did
so, sleeping on the lounge in my sitting-room.
At first I exerted myself to entertain my young guest,--youth and
beauty have great charms for me,--but beyond some curiosity at the
sight of pictures, I met with no encouragement. The girl's mind was a
vacuum. She spent the hours before retiring in caressing and romping
with my kitten, in whose company she generally curled up on the hearth
rug and went to sleep, looking, with her disarranged curly hair and
round, flushed cheeks, like a child kept up after its bed-time.
But after a few weeks she came less frequently, and finally not at all.
I heard of her occasionally through her mother, however, who reported
favorably, dilating most fervidly upon the exemplary punctuality with
which Phenie placed her earnings in the maternal hand.
It happened one evening in mid-winter that I was hastening along
Pennsylvania Avenue at an early hour, when, as I was passing a certain
restaurant, the door of the ladies' entrance was pushed noisily
open, and a party of three came out. The first of these was a man,
middle-aged, well-dressed, and of a jaunty and gallant air, the second
a large, high-colored young woman, the third--Phenie. She looked
flushed and excited, and was laughing in her pretty, foolish way at
something her male companion was saying to her. My heart stood still;
but, as I watched the trio from the obscurity of a convenient door-way,
I saw the man hail a Navy Yard car, assist Phenie to enter it, and
return to his friend upon the pavement.
I was ill at ease. I felt a certain degree of responsibility concerning
Phenie, and the next day, therefore, I waited for her at the great iron
gate through which the employés of the Bureau must pass out, determined
to have a few words with the child in private. Among the first to
appear was Phenie, and with her, as I had feared, the high-colored
young woman. In spite of that person's insolent looks, I drew Phenie's
little hand unresistingly through my arm, and led her away.
Outside the building, as I had half-expected, loitered the man in
whose company I had seen her on the previous evening. Daylight
showed him to be a type familiar to Washington eyes--large, florid,
scrupulously attired, and carrying himself with a mingled air of
military distinction and senatorial dignity well calculated to deceive
an unsophisticated observer.
He greeted Phenie with a courtly bow, and a smile, which changed
quickly to a dark look as his eyes met mine, and turned away with a
sudden assumption of lofty indifference and abstraction.
Phenie accompanied me to my room without a word, where I busied myself
in preparing some work for her mother, chatting meanwhile of various
trifling matters.
I could see that the girl looked puzzled, astonished, even a little
angry. She kept one of her small, dimpled hands hidden under the
folds of her water-proof, too, and her eyes followed me wistfully and
questioningly.
"Who were those people I saw you with last evening, coming from H----'s
saloon?" I suddenly asked.
Phenie gave me a startled glance; her face grew pale.
"Her name," she stammered, "is Nettie Mullin."
"And the gentleman?" I asked again, with an irony which I fear was
entirely thrown away.
The girl's color came back with a rush.
"His name is O'Brien, General O'Brien," she faltered. "He--he's a great
man!" she added, with a pitiful little show of pride.
"Ah! Did he tell you so?" I asked.
"Nettie told me," the girl answered, simply. "She's known him a long
time. He's rich and has a great deal of--of influence, and he's
promised to get us promoted. He's a great friend of Nettie's, and
he--he's a perfect gentleman."
She looked so innocent and confused as she sat rubbing the toe of one
small boot across a figure of the carpet, that I had not the heart to
question her further. In her agitation she had withdrawn the hand she
had kept hitherto concealed beneath her cape, and was turning around
and around the showy ring which adorned one finger.
"I am certain, Phenie," I said, "that your friend General O'Brien is no
more a general and no more a gentleman than that ring you are wearing
is genuine gold and diamonds."
She gave me a half-laughing, half-resentful look, colored painfully,
but said nothing, and went away at length, with the puzzled, hurt look
still on her face.
For several days following I went every day to the gate of the Bureau,
and saw Phenie on her homeward way. For two or three days "General
O'Brien" continued to loiter about the door-way, but as he ceased at
length to appear, and as the system I had adopted entailed upon me
much fatigue and loss of time, I decided finally to leave Phenie again
to her own devices; not, however, without some words of advice and
warning. She received them silently, but her large, soft eyes looked
into mine with the pathetic, wondering look of a baby, who cannot
comprehend why it shall not put its hand into the blaze of the lamp.
I did not see her for some time after this, but having ascertained
from her mother that she was in the habit of coming home regularly, my
anxiety was in a measure quieted.
"She don't seem nateral, Phenie don't," Mrs. Angel said one day. "She's
kind o' quiet, like, as ef she was studyin' about something, an' she
used to be everlastin' singin' an' laughin'. Columbus, he's a-gittin'
kind o' oneasy an' jealous, like. Says he, 'Mrs. Angel,' says he, 'ef
Phenie should go back on me after all, an' me a-scrapin', an' a-savin',
an' a-goin' out o' butcherin' along o' her not favorin' it,' says he,
'why I reckon I wouldn't never git over it,' says he. Ye see him an'
her's ben a-keepin' comp'ny sence Phenie was twelve year old. I tells
him he ain't no call ter feel oneasy, though, not as _I_ knows on."
Something urged me here to speak of what I knew as to Phenie's recent
associates, but other motives--a regard for the girl's feelings, and
reliance upon certain promises she had made me, mingled with a want of
confidence in her mother's wisdom and discretion--kept me silent.
* * * * *
One evening--it was in March, and a little blustering--I was sitting
comfortably by my fire, trying to decide between the attractions of a
new magazine and the calls of duty which required my attendance at a
certain "Ladies' Committee-meeting," when a muffled, unhandy sort of a
knock upon my door disturbed my train of thought. I uttered an indolent
"Come in!"
There was a hesitating turn of the knob, the door opened, and I rose to
be confronted by a tall, broad-chested young man, of ruddy complexion
and undecided features; a young man who, not at all abashed, bowed in a
friendly manner, while his mild, blue eyes wandered about the apartment
with undisguised eagerness. He wore a new suit of invisible plaid, an
extremely low-necked shirt, a green necktie, and a celluloid pin in
the form of a shapely feminine leg. Furthermore, the little finger of
the hand which held his felt hat was gracefully crooked in a manner
admitting the display of a seal ring of a peculiarly striking style,
and an agreeable odor of bergamot, suggestive of the barber's chair,
emanated from his person. It flashed over me at once that this was
Phenie Angel's lover, a suspicion which his first words verified.
"Ain't Miss Angel here?" he asked, in a voice full of surprise and
disappointment.
"No, she is not," I answered. "You are her friend, Columbus----"
"Columbus Dockett, ma'am," he responded. "Yes, ma'am. Ain't Phenie been
here this evenin'?"
"No. Did you expect to find her here?"
Mr. Dockett's frank face clouded perceptibly, and he pushed his hair
back and forth on his forehead uneasily, as he answered:
"I did, indeed, ma'am. I--you see, ma'am, she ain't been comin' home
reg'lar of late, Phenie ain't, an' I ain't had no good chance to speak
to her for right smart of a while. I laid off to see her to-night for
certain. I've got somethin' _partic'lar_ to say to her, to-night.
You see, ma'am," he added, becoming somewhat confused, "me an'
her--we--I--me an' her----"
He stopped, evidently feeling his inability to express himself with the
delicacy the subject required.
"I understand, Mr. Dockett," I said, smilingly, "you and Phenie are----"
"That's it!" interposed Mr. Dockett, much relieved. "Yes, ma'am, that's
how the matter stan's! I made sure of findin' Phenie here. Her ma says
as that's where she's been a-stayin' nights lately."