Part 11

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."

I started. I had not seen Phenie for two or three weeks.

"I dare say she has gone home with one of the girls from the Bureau," I said, reassuringly.

I had been studying the young man's face in the meantime, and had decided that Mr. Dockett was a very good sort of a fellow. There was good material in him. It might be in a raw state, but it was very good material, indeed. He might be a butcher by trade, but surely he was the "mildest-mannered man" that ever felled an ox. His voice had a pleasant, sincere ring, and altogether he looked like a man with whom it might be dangerous to trifle, but who might be trusted to handle a sick baby, or wait upon a helpless woman with unlimited devotion.

"You don't have no idea who the girl might be?" he asked, gazing dejectedly into the crown of his hat. "'Tain't so late. I might find Phenie yit."

It happened, by the merest chance, that I did know where Nettie Mullin, in whose company I feared Phenie might again be found, boarded. That is to say, I knew the house but not its number, and standing as it did at a point where several streets and avenues intersect, its situation was one not easily imparted to another. I saw, by the look of hopeless bewilderment on Mr. Dockett's face, that he could have discovered the North-west Passage with equal facility.

I reflected, hesitated, formed a hasty resolution, and said:

"I am going out to attend a meeting, and I will show you where one of the girls, with whom I have seen Phenie, lives. You may find her there now."

The young man's face brightened a little. He expressed his thanks, and waited for me on the landing.

The house where Miss Mullin boarded was only a few squares away. It was one of a row of discouraged-looking houses, which had started out with the intention of being genteel but had long ago given up the idea.

It was lighted up cheerfully, however, we saw on approaching, and a hack stood before the door. I indicated to my companion that this was the house, and would have turned away, but at that moment the door opened, and two girls came out and descended the steps. The light from the hall, as well as that of a street-lamp, fell full upon them. There was no mistaking Miss Mullin, and her companion was Phenie,--in a gay little hat set saucily back from her face, the foolish, pretty laugh ringing from her lips.

The two girls tripped lightly across the pavement toward the carriage. As they did so, the door was opened from within (the occupant, for reasons best known to himself, preferring not to alight), and a well-clad, masculine arm was gallantly extended. Miss Mullin, giggling effusively, was about to enter, followed close by Phenie, when, with a smothered cry, Dockett darted forward and placed himself between them and the carriage.

"Phenie," he said, his voice shaking a little. "Phenie, where was you a-goin'?"

The young girl started back, confused.

"Law, Columbus!" she faltered, in a scared, faint voice.

In the meantime, the man in the carriage put his face out of the door, and eyed the intruder, for an instant, arrogantly. Then, affecting to ignore his presence altogether, he turned toward the two girls with a slightly impatient air, saying, in an indescribably offensive tone:

"Come, ladies, come. What are you stopping for?"

Dockett, who had been holding Phenie's little hand speechlessly, let it fall, and turned toward the carriage excitedly.

"Miss Angel is stoppin' to speak to _me_, sir," he said. "Have you got anything to say ag'inst it?"

The occupant of the carriage stared haughtily at him, broke into a short laugh, and turned again toward the girls.

Dockett, pushing his hat down upon his head, took a step nearer. The gentleman, after another glance, drew back discreetly, saying, in a nonchalant manner:

"Come, Miss Nettie. We shall be late."

"I suppose you're not going with us, then, Miss Angel?" said Miss Mullin, with a toss of her plumed hat.

Dockett turned, and looked Phenie steadily in the face.

"_Be_ you goin' with them?" he asked, in a low voice.

"N--no!" the girl faltered, faintly. "I'll go with you, Columbus."

A muffled remark of a profane nature was heard to proceed from the carriage, the door was violently closed, and the vehicle rolled rapidly away.

I had kept discreetly aloof, although an interested spectator of the scene. Phenie, after one swift glance in my direction, had not raised her eyes again.

"We'll go with you where you're goin', ma'am," said Dockett, as the carriage disappeared, but I would not permit this.

"Well, good evenin', ma'am," he said; "I'm a thousand times obliged to you--good evenin'."