Intolerably monotonous seemed now to the Bunner sisters the treadmill
routine of the shop, colourless and long their evenings about the lamp,
aimless their habitual interchange of words to the weary accompaniment
of the sewing and pinking machines.
It was perhaps with the idea of relieving the tension of their mood
that Evelina, the following Sunday, suggested inviting Miss Mellins to
supper. The Bunner sisters were not in a position to be lavish of the
humblest hospitality, but two or three times in the year they shared
their evening meal with a friend; and Miss Mellins, still flushed with
the importance of her “turn,” seemed the most interesting guest they
could invite.
As the three women seated themselves at the supper-table, embellished by
the unwonted addition of pound cake and sweet pickles, the dress-maker's
sharp swarthy person stood out vividly between the neutral-tinted
sisters. Miss Mellins was a small woman with a glossy yellow face and
a frizz of black hair bristling with imitation tortoise-shell pins. Her
sleeves had a fashionable cut, and half a dozen metal bangles rattled
on her wrists. Her voice rattled like her bangles as she poured forth a
stream of anecdote and ejaculation; and her round black eyes jumped with
acrobatic velocity from one face to another. Miss Mellins was always
having or hearing of amazing adventures. She had surprised a burglar in
her room at midnight (though how he got there, what he robbed her
of, and by what means he escaped had never been quite clear to her
auditors); she had been warned by anonymous letters that her grocer (a
rejected suitor) was putting poison in her tea; she had a customer who
was shadowed by detectives, and another (a very wealthy lady) who
had been arrested in a department store for kleptomania; she had been
present at a spiritualist seance where an old gentleman had died in a
fit on seeing a materialization of his mother-in-law; she had escaped
from two fires in her night-gown, and at the funeral of her first cousin
the horses attached to the hearse had run away and smashed the coffin,
precipitating her relative into an open man-hole before the eyes of his
distracted family.
A sceptical observer might have explained Miss Mellins's proneness to
adventure by the fact that she derived her chief mental nourishment from
the Police Gazette and the Fireside Weekly; but her lot was cast in a
circle where such insinuations were not likely to be heard, and where
the title-role in blood-curdling drama had long been her recognized
right.
“Yes,” she was now saying, her emphatic eyes on Ann Eliza, “you may not
believe it, Miss Bunner, and I don't know's I should myself if anybody
else was to tell me, but over a year before ever I was born, my mother
she went to see a gypsy fortune-teller that was exhibited in a tent on
the Battery with the green-headed lady, though her father warned her
not to--and what you s'pose she told her? Why, she told her these very
words--says she: 'Your next child'll be a girl with jet-black curls, and
she'll suffer from spasms.'”
“Mercy!” murmured Ann Eliza, a ripple of sympathy running down her
spine.
“D'you ever have spasms before, Miss Mellins?” Evelina asked.
“Yes, ma'am,” the dress-maker declared. “And where'd you suppose I had
'em? Why, at my cousin Emma McIntyre's wedding, her that married the
apothecary over in Jersey City, though her mother appeared to her in a
dream and told her she'd rue the day she done it, but as Emma said,
she got more advice than she wanted from the living, and if she was to
listen to spectres too she'd never be sure what she'd ought to do and
what she'd oughtn't; but I will say her husband took to drink, and she
never was the same woman after her fust baby--well, they had an elegant
church wedding, and what you s'pose I saw as I was walkin' up the aisle
with the wedding percession?”
“Well?” Ann Eliza whispered, forgetting to thread her needle.
“Why, a coffin, to be sure, right on the top step of the chancel--Emma's
folks is 'piscopalians and she would have a church wedding, though HIS
mother raised a terrible rumpus over it--well, there it set, right in
front of where the minister stood that was going to marry 'em, a coffin
covered with a black velvet pall with a gold fringe, and a 'Gates Ajar'
in white camellias atop of it.”
“Goodness,” said Evelina, starting, “there's a knock!”
“Who can it be?” shuddered Ann Eliza, still under the spell of Miss
Mellins's hallucination.
Evelina rose and lit a candle to guide her through the shop. They heard
her turn the key of the outer door, and a gust of night air stirred the
close atmosphere of the back room; then there was a sound of vivacious
exclamations, and Evelina returned with Mr. Ramy.
Ann Eliza's heart rocked like a boat in a heavy sea, and the
dress-maker's eyes, distended with curiosity, sprang eagerly from face
to face.
“I just thought I'd call in again,” said Mr. Ramy, evidently somewhat
disconcerted by the presence of Miss Mellins. “Just to see how the
clock's behaving,” he added with his hollow-cheeked smile.
“Oh, she's behaving beautiful,” said Ann Eliza; “but we're real glad to
see you all the same. Miss Mellins, let me make you acquainted with Mr.
Ramy.”
The dress-maker tossed back her head and dropped her lids in
condescending recognition of the stranger's presence; and Mr. Ramy
responded by an awkward bow. After the first moment of constraint a
renewed sense of satisfaction filled the consciousness of the three
women. The Bunner sisters were not sorry to let Miss Mellins see that
they received an occasional evening visit, and Miss Mellins was clearly
enchanted at the opportunity of pouring her latest tale into a new ear.
As for Mr. Ramy, he adjusted himself to the situation with greater ease
than might have been expected, and Evelina, who had been sorry that he
should enter the room while the remains of supper still lingered on
the table, blushed with pleasure at his good-humored offer to help her
“glear away.”
The table cleared, Ann Eliza suggested a game of cards; and it was after
eleven o'clock when Mr. Ramy rose to take leave. His adieux were so much
less abrupt than on the occasion of his first visit that Evelina was
able to satisfy her sense of etiquette by escorting him, candle in hand,
to the outer door; and as the two disappeared into the shop Miss Mellins
playfully turned to Ann Eliza.
“Well, well, Miss Bunner,” she murmured, jerking her chin in the
direction of the retreating figures, “I'd no idea your sister was
keeping company. On'y to think!”
Ann Eliza, roused from a state of dreamy beatitude, turned her timid
eyes on the dress-maker.
“Oh, you're mistaken, Miss Mellins. We don't har'ly know Mr. Ramy.”
Miss Mellins smiled incredulously. “You go 'long, Miss Bunner. I guess
there'll be a wedding somewheres round here before spring, and I'll be
real offended if I ain't asked to make the dress. I've always seen her
in a gored satin with rooshings.”
Ann Eliza made no answer. She had grown very pale, and her eyes lingered
searchingly on Evelina as the younger sister re-entered the room.
Evelina's cheeks were pink, and her blue eyes glittered; but it seemed
to Ann Eliza that the coquettish tilt of her head regrettably emphasized
the weakness of her receding chin. It was the first time that Ann
Eliza had ever seen a flaw in her sister's beauty, and her involuntary
criticism startled her like a secret disloyalty.
That night, after the light had been put out, the elder sister knelt
longer than usual at her prayers. In the silence of the darkened
room she was offering up certain dreams and aspirations whose brief
blossoming had lent a transient freshness to her days. She wondered
now how she could ever have supposed that Mr. Ramy's visits had another
cause than the one Miss Mellins suggested. Had not the sight of Evelina
first inspired him with a sudden solicitude for the welfare of the
clock? And what charms but Evelina's could have induced him to repeat
his visit? Grief held up its torch to the frail fabric of Ann Eliza's
illusions, and with a firm heart she watched them shrivel into ashes;
then, rising from her knees full of the chill joy of renunciation, she
laid a kiss on the crimping pins of the sleeping Evelina and crept under
the bedspread at her side.
V
During the months that followed, Mr. Ramy visited the sisters with
increasing frequency. It became his habit to call on them every Sunday
evening, and occasionally during the week he would find an excuse for
dropping in unannounced as they were settling down to their work beside
the lamp. Ann Eliza noticed that Evelina now took the precaution of
putting on her crimson bow every evening before supper, and that she
had refurbished with a bit of carefully washed lace the black silk
which they still called new because it had been bought a year after Ann
Eliza's.
Mr. Ramy, as he grew more intimate, became less conversational, and
after the sisters had blushingly accorded him the privilege of a pipe he
began to permit himself long stretches of meditative silence that
were not without charm to his hostesses. There was something at once
fortifying and pacific in the sense of that tranquil male presence in
an atmosphere which had so long quivered with little feminine doubts and
distresses; and the sisters fell into the habit of saying to each other,
in moments of uncertainty: “We'll ask Mr. Ramy when he comes,” and of
accepting his verdict, whatever it might be, with a fatalistic readiness
that relieved them of all responsibility.
When Mr. Ramy drew the pipe from his mouth and became, in his turn,
confidential, the acuteness of their sympathy grew almost painful to the
sisters. With passionate participation they listened to the story of his
early struggles in Germany, and of the long illness which had been the
cause of his recent misfortunes. The name of the Mrs. Hochmuller (an old
comrade's widow) who had nursed him through his fever was greeted with
reverential sighs and an inward pang of envy whenever it recurred in his
biographical monologues, and once when the sisters were alone Evelina
called a responsive flush to Ann Eliza's brow by saying suddenly,
without the mention of any name: “I wonder what she's like?”
One day toward spring Mr. Ramy, who had by this time become as much a
part of their lives as the letter-carrier or the milkman, ventured the
suggestion that the ladies should accompany him to an exhibition of
stereopticon views which was to take place at Chickering Hall on the
following evening.
After their first breathless “Oh!” of pleasure there was a silence
of mutual consultation, which Ann Eliza at last broke by saying: “You
better go with Mr. Ramy, Evelina. I guess we don't both want to leave
the store at night.”
Evelina, with such protests as politeness demanded, acquiesced in this
opinion, and spent the next day in trimming a white chip bonnet with
forget-me-nots of her own making. Ann Eliza brought out her mosaic
brooch, a cashmere scarf of their mother's was taken from its linen
cerements, and thus adorned Evelina blushingly departed with Mr. Ramy,
while the elder sister sat down in her place at the pinking-machine.
It seemed to Ann Eliza that she was alone for hours, and she was
surprised, when she heard Evelina tap on the door, to find that the
clock marked only half-past ten.
“It must have gone wrong again,” she reflected as she rose to let her
sister in.
The evening had been brilliantly interesting, and several striking
stereopticon views of Berlin had afforded Mr. Ramy the opportunity of
enlarging on the marvels of his native city.
“He said he'd love to show it all to me!” Evelina declared as Ann Eliza
conned her glowing face. “Did you ever hear anything so silly? I didn't
know which way to look.”
Ann Eliza received this confidence with a sympathetic murmur.
“My bonnet IS becoming, isn't it?” Evelina went on irrelevantly, smiling
at her reflection in the cracked glass above the chest of drawers.
“You're jest lovely,” said Ann Eliza.
Spring was making itself unmistakably known to the distrustful New
Yorker by an increased harshness of wind and prevalence of dust, when
one day Evelina entered the back room at supper-time with a cluster of
jonquils in her hand.
“I was just that foolish,” she answered Ann Eliza's wondering glance, “I
couldn't help buyin' 'em. I felt as if I must have something pretty to
look at right away.”
“Oh, sister,” said Ann Eliza, in trembling sympathy. She felt that
special indulgence must be conceded to those in Evelina's state since
she had had her own fleeting vision of such mysterious longings as the
words betrayed.
Evelina, meanwhile, had taken the bundle of dried grasses out of the
broken china vase, and was putting the jonquils in their place with
touches that lingered down their smooth stems and blade-like leaves.
“Ain't they pretty?” she kept repeating as she gathered the flowers into
a starry circle. “Seems as if spring was really here, don't it?”
Ann Eliza remembered that it was Mr. Ramy's evening.
When he came, the Teutonic eye for anything that blooms made him turn at
once to the jonquils.
“Ain't dey pretty?” he said. “Seems like as if de spring was really
here.”
“Don't it?” Evelina exclaimed, thrilled by the coincidence of their
thought. “It's just what I was saying to my sister.”
Ann Eliza got up suddenly and moved away; she remembered that she had
not wound the clock the day before. Evelina was sitting at the table;
the jonquils rose slenderly between herself and Mr. Ramy.
“Oh,” she murmured with vague eyes, “how I'd love to get away somewheres
into the country this very minute--somewheres where it was green and
quiet. Seems as if I couldn't stand the city another day.” But Ann Eliza
noticed that she was looking at Mr. Ramy, and not at the flowers.
“I guess we might go to Cendral Park some Sunday,” their visitor
suggested. “Do you ever go there, Miss Evelina?”
“No, we don't very often; leastways we ain't been for a good while.” She
sparkled at the prospect. “It would be lovely, wouldn't it, Ann Eliza?”
“Why, yes,” said the elder sister, coming back to her seat.
“Well, why don't we go next Sunday?” Mr. Ramy continued. “And we'll
invite Miss Mellins too--that'll make a gosy little party.”
That night when Evelina undressed she took a jonquil from the vase
and pressed it with a certain ostentation between the leaves of her
prayer-book. Ann Eliza, covertly observing her, felt that Evelina was
not sorry to be observed, and that her own acute consciousness of the
act was somehow regarded as magnifying its significance.
The following Sunday broke blue and warm. The Bunner sisters were
habitual church-goers, but for once they left their prayer-books on the
what-not, and ten o'clock found them, gloved and bonneted, awaiting Miss
Mellins's knock. Miss Mellins presently appeared in a glitter of jet
sequins and spangles, with a tale of having seen a strange man prowling
under her windows till he was called off at dawn by a confederate's
whistle; and shortly afterward came Mr. Ramy, his hair brushed with more
than usual care, his broad hands encased in gloves of olive-green kid.
The little party set out for the nearest street-car, and a flutter of
mingled gratification and embarrassment stirred Ann Eliza's bosom when
it was found that Mr. Ramy intended to pay their fares. Nor did he fail
to live up to this opening liberality; for after guiding them through
the Mall and the Ramble he led the way to a rustic restaurant where,
also at his expense, they fared idyllically on milk and lemon-pie.
After this they resumed their walk, strolling on with the slowness of
unaccustomed holiday-makers from one path to another--through budding
shrubberies, past grass-banks sprinkled with lilac crocuses, and under
rocks on which the forsythia lay like sudden sunshine. Everything about
her seemed new and miraculously lovely to Ann Eliza; but she kept her
feelings to herself, leaving it to Evelina to exclaim at the hepaticas
under the shady ledges, and to Miss Mellins, less interested in the
vegetable than in the human world, to remark significantly on the
probable history of the persons they met. All the alleys were thronged
with promenaders and obstructed by perambulators; and Miss Mellins's
running commentary threw a glare of lurid possibilities over the placid
family groups and their romping progeny.
Ann Eliza was in no mood for such interpretations of life; but, knowing
that Miss Mellins had been invited for the sole purpose of keeping her
company she continued to cling to the dress-maker's side, letting
Mr. Ramy lead the way with Evelina. Miss Mellins, stimulated by the
excitement of the occasion, grew more and more discursive, and
her ceaseless talk, and the kaleidoscopic whirl of the crowd, were
unspeakably bewildering to Ann Eliza. Her feet, accustomed to the
slippered ease of the shop, ached with the unfamiliar effort of walking,
and her ears with the din of the dress-maker's anecdotes; but every
nerve in her was aware of Evelina's enjoyment, and she was determined
that no weariness of hers should curtail it. Yet even her heroism shrank
from the significant glances which Miss Mellins presently began to
cast at the couple in front of them: Ann Eliza could bear to connive at
Evelina's bliss, but not to acknowledge it to others.
At length Evelina's feet also failed her, and she turned to suggest
that they ought to be going home. Her flushed face had grown pale with
fatigue, but her eyes were radiant.
The return lived in Ann Eliza's memory with the persistence of an evil
dream. The horse-cars were packed with the returning throng, and they
had to let a dozen go by before they could push their way into one that
was already crowded. Ann Eliza had never before felt so tired. Even Miss
Mellins's flow of narrative ran dry, and they sat silent, wedged between
a negro woman and a pock-marked man with a bandaged head, while the car
rumbled slowly down a squalid avenue to their corner. Evelina and Mr.
Ramy sat together in the forward part of the car, and Ann Eliza could
catch only an occasional glimpse of the forget-me-not bonnet and the
clock-maker's shiny coat-collar; but when the little party got out at
their corner the crowd swept them together again, and they walked back
in the effortless silence of tired children to the Bunner sisters'
basement. As Miss Mellins and Mr. Ramy turned to go their various ways
Evelina mustered a last display of smiles; but Ann Eliza crossed the
threshold in silence, feeling the stillness of the little shop reach out
to her like consoling arms.
That night she could not sleep; but as she lay cold and rigid at her
sister's side, she suddenly felt the pressure of Evelina's arms, and
heard her whisper: “Oh, Ann Eliza, warn't it heavenly?”