The Angel of the Tenement | Page 9

reason,
these bitter speeches were growing less frequent on Mary Carew's lips
since she opened her door to entertain an Angel.
CHAPTER IV.
THE ANGEL BECOMES A FAIRY.
July passed, and in August, the heat in the room beneath the roof set the
air to shimmering like a veil before the open window, and Mary Carew,
gasping, found it harder and harder to make that extra pair of jean
pantaloons a day. And, as though the manager at the Garden Opera
House had divined that Miss Bonkowski had left another birthday
behind her, like milestones along the way, that lady's salary received a
cut on the first day of August.

At best, the united incomes of the two made but a meagre sum, and
there was nothing for it now but to reduce expenses. The rent being one
thing that was never cut, the result was a scantier allowance of food.
Moreover, the mortals seeing to it that their heavenly visitant had her
full craving satisfied, it was small wonder that the bones in Mary's face
pressed more like knobs than ever against the tight-drawn skin, or that
the spirits of the airy, hopeful, buoyant Norma flagged. Indeed, had not
the warm-hearted, loving little creature, repaid them with quick
devotion, filling their meagre lives with new interests and affections,
despair or worse--regret for their generous impulse--must now have
seized their hearts.
Invitations, too, grew rare, from the other ladies of the Tenement,
bidding the little stranger whose simple friendliness and baby dignity
had won them all, to dine or to sup, for hard times had fallen upon them
also. A strike at a neighboring foundry, the shutting down of the great
rolling-mill by the river had sent their husbands home for a summer
vacation, with, unfortunately, no provision for wages, a state of affairs
forbidding even angels' visits, when the angel possessed so human a
craving for bread.
Even Mrs. O'Malligan, whose chief patron, Mrs. Tony, together with
her children and their dozens of dresses, had gone for a summer outing,
had no more on her table than her own family could dispose of.
But the Angel,--"'Eaving bless her," as Mrs. Tomlin was wont to
observe when the Angel, coming to see the baby, would stand with
grave wonder, touching the pallid little cheek with a rosy finger to
make the baby smile,--the Angel noted nothing of all this. Even the
memory of "Mamma" was fading, and Mary, Norma, the Tenement, the
friendly children swarming staircase and doorway, were fast becoming
her small world.
With instinct born of her profession, the chorus-lady had long ago
recognized the wonderful grace and buoyancy of the child's every
movement, and to her surprise found that the baby had quite a
knowledge of dancing.

"Who taught you how, my precious?" she would ask, when the child, as
if from the very love of motion, would catch and spread her skirts, and,
with pointed toe, trip about the room, "tell your Norma who taught the
darling how to dance?"
The baby glancing over her shoulder, with the little frown of
displeasure that always greeted such ignorance on Norma's part, had
but one reply: "Tante," she would declare, and continue her measured
walk about the floor. So, for pastime, Norma began teaching her the
figures of a dance then on the boards at the Opera House, to which her
little ladyship lent herself with readiness. The motions, sometimes
approaching the grotesque in the lean and elderly chorus-lady as she
bobbed about the limited space, courtesying, twirling, pirouetting, her
blonde hair done up in kids,--herself in the abbreviated toilet of pink
calico sack and petticoat reserved for home hours, changed to
unconscious grace and innocent abandon in the light, clean-limbed
child, who learned with quickness akin to instinct, and who seemed to
follow Norma's movements almost before they were completed.
"It is wonderful--amazing!" Miss Bonkowski would exclaim, pausing
for breath, "it is genius," and her voice would pause and fall reverently
before the words, and the lesson would be resumed with greater
enthusiasm than before.
But many were the days when, Norma away at rehearsal and Mary
Carew, hot, tired, alas, even cross,--totally irresponsive to anything but
the stitching of jean pantaloons,--the Angel would grow tired of the
stuffy room and long for the forbidden dangers and delights of
Tenement sidewalks. Then, often, with nothing else to do, she would
catch up her tiny skirts and whirl herself into the dance Norma had
taught her, in and out among the furniture crowding the room,
humming little broken snatches of music for herself, bending, swaying,
her bright eyes full of laughter as they met Mary's tired ones, her curls
bobbing, until breathless, hot and weary she would drop on the floor
and fall asleep, her head pillowed on her soft