* * * * *
A month later, perhaps, Mrs. Angel, whom I had not seen since the
interview just related, came toiling up the stairs with her arms
piled high with suggestive-looking packages, and beamingly and
unceremoniously entered my sitting-room. With rather more than her
customary ease of manner, she deposited herself and parcels upon the
lounge, and exclaimed, pantingly:
"Wall! Phenie an' Columbus is goin' ter be married Sunday week!"
"Ah!" I responded, with a sympathetic thrill, "so they have made it up
again?"
"Yes, indeed!" she answered, "they've done made it up. They _was_ one
time I was most afeard Columbus was goin' to back out, though. 'Twas
after that time when he come down here after Phenie, an' found her
a-goin' out 'long o' that Bureau gal an' that man as called hisself a
gineral!"
"So you found out the character of Phenie's friend at last?" I said.
"Columbus, _he_ found it out. I'll tell ye how 'twas. Ye see, him an'
Phenie was a-havin' of it that night after they got home. They was in
the front room, but they's right smart of a crack 'roun' the do', an'
you kin hear right smart ef you sets up clos't enough," she explained,
naïvely.
"'Phenie,' says Columbus, kind o' humble like, 'I don't want no wife as
don't like me better 'n ary other man in the world. Ef you likes that
man, an' he's a good man, an' means right by ye, I ain't one ter stan'
in your way; but,' says he, 'I don't believe he's no good. I've seen
them kind befo', an' I don't have no confidence into him.'
"'Columbus,' says Phenie, kind o' spirited, fur _her_, 'you ain't got
no call to talk agin' him. He's a gentleman, he is!'
"'All right!' says Columbus, chokin' up, 'all right. Mebbe he is--but I
don't like this meetin' of him unbeknownst, Phenie. It ain't the thing.
Now I want you ter promise me not to meet him any more _unbeknownst_
till you knows more about him, an' you give me leave ter find out all
about him, an' see ef I don't.'
"'I won't listen to no lies,' says Phenie, kind o' fiery.
"'I won't tell ye no lies, Phenie,' he says. 'I never has, an' I ain't
goin' ter begin now.'
"Then he got up an' shoved his cheer back, and I had ter go 'way from
the crack.
"Wall, Phenie looked real white an' sick after that, an' I felt right
down sorry fur the gal, but I didn't let on I knew anything, 'cause
'twaren't _my_ place ter speak _fust_, ye know! Wall, she dragged
'round fur three, four days,--that was after she was discharged, you
see,--an' one evenin' Columbus he come in all tremblin' an' stirred up,
an' him an' her went inter the room, an' I sat up ter the crack. An'
Columbus he begun.
"'Phenie,' says he, his voice all hoarse an' shaky, 'Phenie, what would
you say ef I was ter tell ye your fine gineral _wasn't_ no gineral, an'
was a married man at that?'
"'Prove it!' says Phenie.
"I had ter laugh ter hear her speak up so peart, like. I didn't think
'twas in her, and she not much more'n a child.
"'Wall,' says Columbus, 'ef _I_ can't prove it, I knows them as kin.'
"'Wall,' says Phenie, 'when he tells me so hisself, I'll believe it,
an' not befo'!'
"Then Columbus went away, an' I could see he was all worked up an' mad.
His face was white as cotton. Phenie, she went to bed, an' I heerd
her a-cryin' an' a-snubbin' all night. She couldn't eat no breakfast,
nuther, though I made griddle-cakes, extry for her; an' she dressed
herself an' went off somewheres--I didn't ask her, but I reckon she
went down ter the city ter find out about that man. Wall, towards night
she come home, an' I never see a gal look so--kind o' wild, like, an'
her eyes a-shinin' an' her cheeks as red as pinies. She sot an' looked
out o' the winder, an' looked, an' bimeby Columbus he come in, an'
they went into the room. I couldn't hear rightly what they said, the
chill'en was makin' sich a noise, but I heared Phenie bust out a-cryin'
fit to break her heart, an' then Columbus, he--wall, Lord! I never did
see sich a feller! He jess loves the groun' that gal's feet walks on!"
"He must be very forgiving," I said. "Phenie has used him badly."
"Wall, I do' know," she replied, with perfect simplicity. "I do' know
as she was beholden to Columbus ef she could a-done better. The child
didn't mean no harm."
Although aware of the impracticability of trying to render Mrs. Angel's
comprehension of maternal duty clearer, I could not help saying:
"But why didn't you, as the girl's own mother and nearest friend, have
a talk with Phenie in the beginning? You might have spared her a great
deal of trouble."
Mrs. Angel's eyes dilated with surprise.
"Lord! Mis' Lawrence!" she exclaimed, "you do' know! Why, gals is that
bashful! They couldn't tell their _mothers_ sich things. Why, I'd 'a'
died 'fore I'd 'a' told mine anything about--love-matters! Lord!"
"Well," I sighed, "I'm glad Phenie is going to marry so good a fellow
as Columbus."
"Y--yes," she answered, condescendingly, "he's a good feller, Columbus
is. He don't drink or smoke, an' he's mighty savin'."
I remarked here, as on other occasions, that Mrs. Angel regarded this
being "savin'" as a purely masculine virtue.
"He's give Phenie most a hundred dollars a'ready," she continued,
complacently. "They ain't no gal 'round as 'll have nicer things 'n
Phenie."
A fortnight later the newly wedded pair called upon me. Phenie
looked very sweet in her bridal finery, but there was something in
her face which I did not like. It meant neither peace nor happiness.
She looked older. There were some hard lines around her lips, and
the childish expression of her lovely eyes had given place to a
restless, absent look. Her husband was serenely unconscious of anything
wanting--unconscious, indeed, of everything but his absolute bliss,
and his new shiny hat. He wore a lavender necktie, now, and gloves of
the same shade, which were painfully tight, and, with the hat, would
have made life a burden to any but the bridegroom of a week's standing.
Phenie had little to say, but Columbus was jubilantly loquacious.
"I've gone out o' butcherin' fur good an' all," he declared,
emphatically. "Phenie didn't like it, an' no more do I. Hucksterin' is
more to my mind, ma'am. It's _cleaner_ an'--an' more genteel, ma'am.
I've got a _good_ stan', an' I mean to keep Phenie like a _lady_,
ma'am!"
* * * * *
She lived but a year after this. She and her baby were buried in one
grave. That was five years ago. Columbus still wears a very wide
hat-band of crape, and mourns her sincerely.
Her death was a heavy blow to her mother, whose grief is borne with
constant repining and unreasoning reflections. The fountains of her
eyes overflow at the mere utterance of the girl's name.
"The doctors 'lowed 'twas consumption as ailed her," she often repeats,
"but I ain't never got red o' thinkin' 'twas trouble as killed her. I
used ter think, Mis' Lawrence," she says, with lowered voice, "that she
hadn't never got over thinkin' of that man as fooled her so! I wish I
could see him oncet! Says she ter me, time an' agin', 'Ma,' says she,
'I reckon I ain't a-goin' ter live long. I'm right young ter die, but I
do' know as I keer!' says she."
"Did her husband ever suspect that she was unhappy?" I asked.
"Lord no, ma'am! Or ef he did he never let on! An' I never seen sich a
man! There wasn't _nothin'_ he didn't git her while she was sick, an'
her coffin was a sight! An' he goes to her grave, rain or shine, as
reg'lar as Sunday comes."
As I have said, several years have passed since Phenie's death, but
Mrs. Angel's visits have never ceased. The lapse of time has left
hardly any traces upon her comely exterior. In times of plenty, her
soul expands gleefully and the brown-paper parcels multiply. In times
of dearth, she sits, an elderly Niobe, and weeps out her woes upon
my hearth-stone. The black satchel, too, by some occult power, has
resisted the wear and tear of years and exposure to the elements,
and continues to swallow up my substance insatiably as of yore.
Occasionally, as I have said, something within me rises in arms against
her quiet, yet persistent encroachments, but this is a transitory mood.
Her next visit puts my resolutions to flight.
Standard Works of Fiction,