Bunner Sisters | Page 6

with dried grasses which had long stood on
the top shelf, and to put the clock in its place; the vase, after farther
consideration, being relegated to a small table covered with blue and
white beadwork, which held a Bible and prayer-book, and an illustrated
copy of Longfellow's poems given as a school-prize to their father.
This change having been made, and the effect studied from every angle
of the room, Evelina languidly put her pinking-machine on the table,
and sat down to the monotonous work of pinking a heap of black silk
flounces. The strips of stuff slid slowly to the floor at her side, and the
clock, from its commanding altitude, kept time with the dispiriting
click of the instrument under her fingers.
II
The purchase of Evelina's clock had been a more important event in the
life of Ann Eliza Bunner than her younger sister could divine. In the
first place, there had been the demoralizing satisfaction of finding
herself in possession of a sum of money which she need not put into the
common fund, but could spend as she chose, without consulting
Evelina, and then the excitement of her stealthy trips abroad,
undertaken on the rare occasions when she could trump up a pretext for
leaving the shop; since, as a rule, it was Evelina who took the bundles
to the dyer's, and delivered the purchases of those among their
customers who were too genteel to be seen carrying home a bonnet or a
bundle of pinking--so that, had it not been for the excuse of having to
see Mrs. Hawkins's teething baby, Ann Eliza would hardly have known

what motive to allege for deserting her usual seat behind the counter.
The infrequency of her walks made them the chief events of her life.
The mere act of going out from the monastic quiet of the shop into the
tumult of the streets filled her with a subdued excitement which grew
too intense for pleasure as she was swallowed by the engulfing roar of
Broadway or Third Avenue, and began to do timid battle with their
incessant cross-currents of humanity. After a glance or two into the
great show-windows she usually allowed herself to be swept back into
the shelter of a side-street, and finally regained her own roof in a state
of breathless bewilderment and fatigue; but gradually, as her nerves
were soothed by the familiar quiet of the little shop, and the click of
Evelina's pinking-machine, certain sights and sounds would detach
themselves from the torrent along which she had been swept, and she
would devote the rest of the day to a mental reconstruction of the
different episodes of her walk, till finally it took shape in her thought as
a consecutive and highly-coloured experience, from which, for weeks
afterwards, she would detach some fragmentary recollection in the
course of her long dialogues with her sister.
But when, to the unwonted excitement of going out, was added the
intenser interest of looking for a present for Evelina, Ann Eliza's
agitation, sharpened by concealment, actually preyed upon her rest; and
it was not till the present had been given, and she had unbosomed
herself of the experiences connected with its purchase, that she could
look back with anything like composure to that stirring moment of her
life. From that day forward, however, she began to take a certain
tranquil pleasure in thinking of Mr. Ramy's small shop, not unlike her
own in its countrified obscurity, though the layer of dust which covered
its counter and shelves made the comparison only superficially
acceptable. Still, she did not judge the state of the shop severely, for Mr.
Ramy had told her that he was alone in the world, and lone men, she
was aware, did not know how to deal with dust. It gave her a good deal
of occupation to wonder why he had never married, or if, on the other
hand, he were a widower, and had lost all his dear little children; and
she scarcely knew which alternative seemed to make him the more
interesting. In either case, his life was assuredly a sad one; and she

passed many hours in speculating on the manner in which he probably
spent his evenings. She knew he lived at the back of his shop, for she
had caught, on entering, a glimpse of a dingy room with a tumbled bed;
and the pervading smell of cold fry suggested that he probably did his
own cooking. She wondered if he did not often make his tea with water
that had not boiled, and asked herself, almost jealously, who looked
after the shop while he went to market. Then it occurred to her as likely
that he bought his provisions at the same market as Evelina; and she