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,[196] "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[197] 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 numer[198]ous 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.[199] 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[200] 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."
 
[201]
 
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, na?vely, "the store-keeper trusted me fur 'em."
 
"If only Phenie could git work," she resumed,[202] 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[203] 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.[204] "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[205] 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[206] 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 issu[207]ing 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,[208] 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.
 
[209]
 
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[210] 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.
 
[211]
 
"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 han............