Two days afterward, Ann Eliza noticed that Evelina, before they sat down
to supper, pinned a crimson bow under her collar; and when the meal
was finished the younger sister, who seldom concerned herself with the
clearing of the table, set about with nervous haste to help Ann Eliza in
the removal of the dishes.
“I hate to see food mussing about,” she grumbled. “Ain't it hateful
having to do everything in one room?”
“Oh, Evelina, I've always thought we was so comfortable,” Ann Eliza
protested.
“Well, so we are, comfortable enough; but I don't suppose there's any
harm in my saying I wisht we had a parlour, is there? Anyway, we might
manage to buy a screen to hide the bed.”
Ann Eliza coloured. There was something vaguely embarrassing in
Evelina's suggestion.
“I always think if we ask for more what we have may be taken from us,”
she ventured.
“Well, whoever took it wouldn't get much,” Evelina retorted with a laugh
as she swept up the table-cloth.
A few moments later the back room was in its usual flawless order and
the two sisters had seated themselves near the lamp. Ann Eliza had taken
up her sewing, and Evelina was preparing to make artificial flowers.
The sisters usually relegated this more delicate business to the long
leisure of the summer months; but to-night Evelina had brought out the
box which lay all winter under the bed, and spread before her a bright
array of muslin petals, yellow stamens and green corollas, and a tray of
little implements curiously suggestive of the dental art. Ann Eliza made
no remark on this unusual proceeding; perhaps she guessed why, for that
evening her sister had chosen a graceful task.
Presently a knock on the outer door made them look up; but Evelina, the
first on her feet, said promptly: “Sit still. I'll see who it is.”
Ann Eliza was glad to sit still: the baby's petticoat that she was
stitching shook in her fingers.
“Sister, here's Mr. Ramy come to look at the clock,” said Evelina, a
moment later, in the high drawl she cultivated before strangers; and
a shortish man with a pale bearded face and upturned coat-collar came
stiffly into the room.
Ann Eliza let her work fall as she stood up. “You're very welcome, I'm
sure, Mr. Ramy. It's real kind of you to call.”
“Nod ad all, ma'am.” A tendency to illustrate Grimm's law in the
interchange of his consonants betrayed the clockmaker's nationality, but
he was evidently used to speaking English, or at least the particular
branch of the vernacular with which the Bunner sisters were familiar.
“I don't like to led any clock go out of my store without being sure it
gives satisfaction,” he added.
“Oh--but we were satisfied,” Ann Eliza assured him.
“But I wasn't, you see, ma'am,” said Mr. Ramy looking slowly about the
room, “nor I won't be, not till I see that clock's going all right.”
“May I assist you off with your coat, Mr. Ramy?” Evelina interposed. She
could never trust Ann Eliza to remember these opening ceremonies.
“Thank you, ma'am,” he replied, and taking his thread-bare over-coat and
shabby hat she laid them on a chair with the gesture she imagined the
lady with the puffed sleeves might make use of on similar occasions.
Ann Eliza's social sense was roused, and she felt that the next act
of hospitality must be hers. “Won't you suit yourself to a seat?” she
suggested. “My sister will reach down the clock; but I'm sure she's all
right again. She's went beautiful ever since you fixed her.”
“Dat's good,” said Mr. Ramy. His lips parted in a smile which showed a
row of yellowish teeth with one or two gaps in it; but in spite of this
disclosure Ann Eliza thought his smile extremely pleasant: there was
something wistful and conciliating in it which agreed with the pathos
of his sunken cheeks and prominent eyes. As he took the lamp, the light
fell on his bulging forehead and wide skull thinly covered with grayish
hair. His hands were pale and broad, with knotty joints and square
finger-tips rimmed with grime; but his touch was as light as a woman's.
“Well, ladies, dat clock's all right,” he pronounced.
“I'm sure we're very much obliged to you,” said Evelina, throwing a
glance at her sister.
“Oh,” Ann Eliza murmured, involuntarily answering the admonition.
She selected a key from the bunch that hung at her waist with her
cutting-out scissors, and fitting it into the lock of the cupboard,
brought out the cherry brandy and three old-fashioned glasses engraved
with vine-wreaths.
“It's a very cold night,” she said, “and maybe you'd like a sip of this
cordial. It was made a great while ago by our grandmother.”
“It looks fine,” said Mr. Ramy bowing, and Ann Eliza filled the glasses.
In her own and Evelina's she poured only a few drops, but she filled
their guest's to the brim. “My sister and I seldom take wine,” she
explained.
With another bow, which included both his hostesses, Mr. Ramy drank off
the cherry brandy and pronounced it excellent.
Evelina meanwhile, with an assumption of industry intended to put
their guest at ease, had taken up her instruments and was twisting a
rose-petal into shape.
“You make artificial flowers, I see, ma'am,” said Mr. Ramy with
interest. “It's very pretty work. I had a lady-vriend in Shermany dat
used to make flowers.” He put out a square finger-tip to touch the
petal.
Evelina blushed a little. “You left Germany long ago, I suppose?”
“Dear me yes, a goot while ago. I was only ninedeen when I come to the
States.”
After this the conversation dragged on intermittently till Mr. Ramy,
peering about the room with the short-sighted glance of his race, said
with an air of interest: “You're pleasantly fixed here; it looks real
cosy.” The note of wistfulness in his voice was obscurely moving to Ann
Eliza.
“Oh, we live very plainly,” said Evelina, with an affectation of
grandeur deeply impressive to her sister. “We have very simple tastes.”
“You look real comfortable, anyhow,” said Mr. Ramy. His bulging eyes
seemed to muster the details of the scene with a gentle envy. “I wisht
I had as good a store; but I guess no blace seems home-like when you're
always alone in it.”
For some minutes longer the conversation moved on at this desultory
pace, and then Mr. Ramy, who had been obviously nerving himself for
the difficult act of departure, took his leave with an abruptness
which would have startled anyone used to the subtler gradations
of intercourse. But to Ann Eliza and her sister there was nothing
surprising in his abrupt retreat. The long-drawn agonies of preparing to
leave, and the subsequent dumb plunge through the door, were so usual in
their circle that they would have been as much embarrassed as Mr. Ramy
if he had tried to put any fluency into his adieux.
After he had left both sisters remained silent for a while; then
Evelina, laying aside her unfinished flower, said: “I'll go and lock
up.”