Chapter VI: Part 6

"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'."

With an indescribable look into Phenie's pale, down-cast face,--a look made up of pain, tenderness and reproach,--he put her hand through his arm, and they went away.

As might have been expected, Phenie avoided me, after this, more carefully than ever. I was glad that she did so. I was also glad when, a week or two later, Mrs. Angel presented herself, in a towering state of indignation, to inform me that Phenie had received her discharge. In vain I reminded her that Phenie's position had been, from the beginning, a temporary one.

"I don't keer!" she persisted. "I'd like ter know what difference it would 'a' made to the Government--jess that little bit o' money! An' me a-needin' of it so! Why couldn't they have discharged some o' them women as sets all day on them velvet carpets an' cheers, a-doin' nothin' but readin' story-papers? Phenie's seen 'em a-doin' of it, time an' ag'in--an' she a-workin' at a old greasy machine!"

In vain I endeavored to prove that no injustice had been done. Mrs. Angel's attitude toward the United States Government remains, to this day, inflexibly hostile.

"Ef Columbus had let alone interferin' between Phenie an' them that was intendin' well by her, I reckon she'd 'a' been settin' on one o' them velvet cheers herself by this time," she remarked, mysteriously, "or a-doin' better still."

I looked at her sharply.

"They's a gentleman," she went on, with a foolish smile, "a gineral, as is all taken up with Phenie. He's a great friend o' the President's, you know, an' they's no knowin' what he _might_ do for the gal, ef Columbus'd let alone interferin'."

"Then Phenie has told you of her new acquaintance?" I said, much relieved.

Mrs. Angel looked at me blankly.

"Lord, no!" she answered, "_she_ never let on! No, indeed! But I knowed it--I knowed it all along. Sam Weaver's gal, _she_ told me about it. I knowed she was keepin' company with him, kind o'."

"And you said nothing to Phenie?"

"Lord, no! Gals is bashful, Mis' Lawrence. No, indeed!"

"Nor say a word of all this to Columbus?" I asked again.

"What fur?" said Mrs. Angel, imperturbably.

He ain't got no call ter interfere, ef she kin do better."

I was silent a moment in sheer despair.

"Do you imagine, for one moment," I said, finally, "that if this general, as he calls himself, is really what he pretends to be, a gentleman and a friend of the President's, that he means honestly by Phenie?"

Mrs. Angel regarded me with a fixed stare, in which I discerned wonder at my incredulity, and indignation at the implied disparagement of her daughter.

"Why not?" she asked, with some heat. "Phenie was a-readin' me a story, not so long ago, about a man, a lord or somethin' like, as married a miller's daughter. The name was 'The Secrit Marriage,' or thereabouts. I'd like to know ef she ain't as good as a _miller's_ daughter, any time o' day?"

I said no more. "Against stupidity even the gods strive in vain."

* * * * *

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.

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