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.
The Sunday was a very hot one, and once on the ferry-boat Ann Eliza revived at the touch of the salt breeze, and the spectacle of the crowded waters; but when they reached the other shore, and stepped out on the dirty wharf, she began to ache with anticipated weariness. They got into a street-car, and were jolted from one mean street to another, till at length Mr. Ramy pulled the conductor’s sleeve and they got out again; then they stood in the blazing sun, near the door of a crowded beer-saloon, waiting for another car to come; and that carried them out to a thinly settled district, past vacant lots and narrow brick houses standing in unsupported solitude, till they finally reached an almost rural region of scattered cottages and low wooden buildings that looked like village “stores.” Here the car finally stopped of its own accord, and they walked along a rutty road, past a stone-cutter’s yard with a high fence tapestried with theatrical advertisements, to a little red house with green blinds and a garden paling. Really, Mr. Ramy had not deceived them. Clumps of dielytra and day-lilies bloomed behind the paling, and a crooked elm hung romantically over the gable of the house.
At the gate Mrs. Hochmuller, a broad woman in brick-brown merino, met them with nods and smiles, while her daughter Linda, a flaxen-haired girl with mottled red cheeks and a sidelong stare, hovered inquisitively behind her. Mrs. Hochmuller, leading the way into the house, conducted the Bunner sisters the way to her bedroom. Here they were invited to spread out on a mountainous white featherbed the cashmere mantles under which the solemnity of the occasion had compelled them to swelter, and when they had given their black silks the necessary twitch of readjustment, and Evelina had fluffed out her hair before a looking-glass framed in pink-shell work, their hostess led them to a stuffy parlour smelling of gingerbread. After another ceremonial pause, broken by polite enquiries and shy ejaculations, they were shown into the kitchen, where the table was already spread with strange-looking spice-cakes and stewed fruits, and where they presently found themselves seated between Mrs. Hochmuller and Mr. Ramy, while the staring Linda bumped back and forth from the stove with steaming dishes.
To Ann Eliza the dinner seemed endless, and the rich fare strangely unappetizing. She was abashed by the easy intimacy of her hostess’s voice and eye. With Mr. Ramy Mrs. Hochmuller was almost flippantly familiar, and it was only when Ann Eliza pictured her generous form bent above his sick-bed that she could forgive her for tersely addressing him as “Ramy.” During one of the pauses of the meal Mrs. Hochmuller laid her knife and fork against the edges of her plate, and, fixing her eyes on the clockmaker’s face, said accusingly: “You hat one of dem turns again, Ramy.”
“I dunno as I had,” he returned evasively.
Evelina glanced from one to the other. “Mr. Ramy HAS been sick,” she said at length, as though to show that she also was in a position to speak with authority. “He’s complained very frequently of headaches.”
“Ho!—I know him,” said Mrs. Hochmuller with a laugh, her eyes still on the clockmaker. “Ain’t you ashamed of yourself, Ramy?”
Mr. Ramy, who was looking at his plate, said suddenly one word which the sisters could not understand; it sounded to Ann Eliza like “Shwike.”
Mrs. Hochmuller laughed again. “My, my,” she said, “wouldn’t you think he’d be ashamed to go and be sick and never dell me, me that nursed him troo dat awful fever?”
“Yes, I SHOULD,” said Evelina, with a spirited glance at Ramy; but he was looking at the sausages that Linda had just put on the table.
When dinner was over Mrs. Hochmuller invited her guests to step out of the kitchen-door, and they found themselves in a green enclosure, half garden, half orchard. Grey hens followed by golden broods clucked under the twisted apple-boughs, a cat dozed on the edge of an old well, and from tree to tree ran the network of clothes-line that denoted Mrs. Hochmuller’s calling. Beyond the apple trees stood a yellow summer-house festooned with scarlet runners; and below it, on the farther side of a rough fence, the land dipped down, holding a bit of woodland in its hollow. It was all strangely sweet and still on that hot Sunday afternoon, and as she moved across the grass under the apple-boughs Ann Eliza thought of quiet afternoons in church, and of the hymns her mother had sung to her when she was a baby.
Evelina was more restless. She wandered from the well to the summer-house and back, she tossed crumbs to the chickens and disturbed the cat with arch caresses; and at last she expressed a desire to go down into the wood.
“I guess you got to go round by the road, then,” said Mrs. Hochmuller. “My Linda she goes troo a hole in de fence, but I guess you’d tear your dress if you was to dry.”
“I’ll help you,” said Mr. Ramy; and guided by Linda the pair walked along the fence till they reached a narrow gap in its boards. Through this they disappeared, watched curiously in their descent by the grinning Linda, while Mrs. Hochmuller and Ann Eliza were left alone in the summer-house.
Mrs. Hochmuller looked at her guest with a confidential smile. “I guess dey’ll be gone quite a while,” she remarked, jerking her double chin toward the gap in the fence. “Folks like dat don’t never remember about de dime.” And she drew out her knitting.
Ann Eliza could think of nothing to say.
“Your sister she thinks a great lot of him, don’t she?” her hostess continued.
Ann Eliza’s cheeks grew hot. “Ain’t you a teeny bit lonesome away out here sometimes?” she asked. “I should think you’d be scared nights, all alone with your daughter.”
“Oh, no, I ain’t,” said Mrs. Hochmuller. “You see I take in washing—dat’s my business—and it’s a lot cheaper doing it out here dan in de city: where’d I get a drying-ground like dis in Hobucken? And den it’s safer for Linda too; it geeps her outer de streets.”
“Oh,” said Ann Eliza, shrinking. She began to feel a distinct aversion for her hostess, and her eyes turned with involuntary annoyance to the square-backed form of Linda, still inquisitively suspended on the fence. It seemed to Ann Eliza that Evelina and her companion would never return from the wood; but they came at length, Mr. Ramy’s brow pearled with perspiration, Evelina pink and conscious, a drooping bunch of ferns in her hand; and it was clear that, to her at least, the moments had been winged.