The words pierced Ann Eliza like a blade. “Yes, that’s so,” she said.
“It would only seem friendly, if he really IS sick. If I was you I’d go to-day,” Evelina continued; and after dinner Ann Eliza went.
On the way she had to leave a parcel at the dyer’s, and having performed that errand she turned toward Mr. Ramy’s shop. Never before had she felt so old, so hopeless and humble. She knew she was bound on a love-errand of Evelina’s, and the knowledge seemed to dry the last drop of young blood in her veins. It took from her, too, all her faded virginal shyness; and with a brisk composure she turned the handle of the clockmaker’s door.
But as she entered her heart began to tremble, for she saw Mr. Ramy, his face hidden in his hands, sitting behind the counter in an attitude of strange dejection. At the click of the latch he looked up slowly, fixing a lustreless stare on Ann Eliza. For a moment she thought he did not know her.
“Oh, you’re sick!” she exclaimed; and the sound of her voice seemed to recall his wandering senses.
“Why, if it ain’t Miss Bunner!” he said, in a low thick tone; but he made no attempt to move, and she noticed that his face was the colour of yellow ashes.
“You ARE sick,” she persisted, emboldened by his evident need of help. “Mr. Ramy, it was real unfriendly of you not to let us know.”
He continued to look at her with dull eyes. “I ain’t been sick,” he said. “Leastways not very: only one of my old turns.” He spoke in a slow laboured way, as if he had difficulty in getting his words together.
“Rheumatism?” she ventured, seeing how unwillingly he seemed to move.
“Well—somethin’ like, maybe. I couldn’t hardly put a name to it.”
“If it WAS anything like rheumatism, my grandmother used to make a tea—” Ann Eliza began: she had forgotten, in the warmth of the moment, that she had only come as Evelina’s messenger.
At the mention of tea an expression of uncontrollable repugnance passed over Mr. Ramy’s face. “Oh, I guess I’m getting on all right. I’ve just got a headache to-day.”
Ann Eliza’s courage dropped at the note of refusal in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “My sister and me’d have been glad to do anything we could for you.”
“Thank you kindly,” said Mr. Ramy wearily; then, as she turned to the door, he added with an effort: “Maybe I’ll step round to-morrow.”
“We’ll be real glad,” Ann Eliza repeated. Her eyes were fixed on a dusty bronze clock in the window. She was unaware of looking at it at the time, but long afterward she remembered that it represented a Newfoundland dog with his paw on an open book.
When she reached home there was a purchaser in the shop, turning over hooks and eyes under Evelina’s absent-minded supervision. Ann Eliza passed hastily into the back room, but in an instant she heard her sister at her side.
“Quick! I told her I was goin’ to look for some smaller hooks—how is he?” Evelina gasped.
“He ain’t been very well,” said Ann Eliza slowly, her eyes on Evelina’s eager face; “but he says he’ll be sure to be round to-morrow night.”
“He will? Are you telling me the truth?”
“Why, Evelina Bunner!”
“Oh, I don’t care!” cried the younger recklessly, rushing back into the shop.
Ann Eliza stood burning with the shame of Evelina’s self-exposure. She was shocked that, even to her, Evelina should lay bare the nakedness of her emotion; and she tried to turn her thoughts from it as though its recollection made her a sharer in her sister’s debasement.
The next evening, Mr. Ramy reappeared, still somewhat sallow and red-lidded, but otherwise his usual self. Ann Eliza consulted him about the investment he had recommended, and after it had been settled that he should attend to the matter for her he took up the illustrated volume of Longfellow—for, as the sisters had learned, his culture soared beyond the newspapers—and read aloud, with a fine confusion of consonants, the poem on “Maidenhood.” Evelina lowered her lids while he read. It was a very beautiful evening, and Ann Eliza thought afterward how different life might have been with a companion who read poetry like Mr. Ramy.
VII
During the ensuing weeks Mr. Ramy, though his visits were as frequent as ever, did not seem to regain his usual spirits. He complained frequently of headache, but rejected Ann Eliza’s tentatively proffered remedies, and seemed to shrink from any prolonged investigation of his symptoms. July had come, with a sudden ardour of heat, and one evening, as the three sat together by the open window in the back room, Evelina said: “I dunno what I wouldn’t give, a night like this, for a breath of real country air.”
“So would I,” said Mr. Ramy, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “I’d like to be setting in an arbour dis very minute.”
“Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely?”
“I always think it’s real cool here—we’d be heaps hotter up where Miss Mellins is,” said Ann Eliza.
“Oh, I daresay—but we’d be heaps cooler somewhere else,” her sister snapped: she was not infrequently exasperated by Ann Eliza’s furtive attempts to mollify Providence.
A few days later Mr. Ramy appeared with a suggestion which enchanted Evelina. He had gone the day before to see his friend, Mrs. Hochmuller, who lived in the outskirts of Hoboken, and Mrs. Hochmuller had proposed that on the following Sunday he should bring the Bunner sisters to spend the day with her.
“She’s got a real garden, you know,” Mr. Ramy explained, “wid trees and a real summer-house to set in; and hens and chickens too. And it’s an elegant sail over on de ferry-boat.”
The proposal drew no response from Ann Eliza. She was still oppressed by the recollection of her interminable Sunday in the Park; but, obedient to Evelina’s imperious glance, she finally faltered out an acceptance.
