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Chapter 5


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?"

Edith Wharton

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