Evelinas Garden | Page 7

her own type, not so far advanced. This woman
hired one of the village cottages, and it was rumored that Evelina
Adams paid the rent. Still, it was considered that she was not very
intimate with these last relatives. The neighbors watched, and saw,
many a time, Mrs. Martha Loomis and her girls try the doors of the
Adams house, scudding around angrily from front to side and back, and
knock and knock again, but with no admittance. "Evelina she won't let

none of 'em in more 'n once a week," the neighbors said. It was odd that,
although they had deeply resented Evelina's seclusion on their own
accounts, they were rather on her side in this matter, and felt a certain
delight when they witnessed a crestfallen retreat of the widow and her
daughters. "I don't s'pose she wants them Loomises marchin' in on her
every minute," they said.
The new Evelina was not seen much with the other cousins, and she
made no acquaintances in the village. Whether she was to inherit all the
Adams property or not, she seemed, at any rate, heiress to all the elder
Evelina's habits of life. She worked with her in the garden, and wore
her old girlish gowns, and kept almost as close at home as she. She
often, however, walked abroad in the early dusk, stepping along in a
grave and stately fashion, as the elder Evelina had used to do, holding
her skirts away from the dewy roadside weeds, her face showing out in
the twilight like a white flower, as if it had a pale light of its own.
Nobody spoke to her; people turned furtively after she had passed and
stared after her, but they never spoke. This young Evelina did not seem
to expect it. She passed along with the lids cast down over her blue
eyes, and the rose and lavender scent of her garments came back in
their faces.
But one night when she was walking slowly along, a full half-mile
from home, she heard rapid footsteps behind, and the young minister,
Thomas Merriam, came up beside her and spoke.
"Good-evening," said he, and his voice was a little hoarse through
nervousness.
Evelina started, and turned her fair face up towards his.
"Good-evening," she responded, and courtesied as she had been taught
at school, and stood close to the wall, that he might pass; but Thomas
Merriam paused also.
"I--" he began, but his voice broke. He cleared his throat angrily, and
went on. "I have seen you in meeting," he said, with a kind of defiance,
more of himself than of her. After all, was he not the minister, and had

he not the right to speak to everybody in the congregation? Why should
he embarrass himself?
"Yes, sir," replied Evelina. She stood drooping her head before him,
and yet there was a certain delicate hauteur about her. Thomas was
afraid to speak again. They both stood silent for a moment, and then
Evelina stirred softly, as if to pass on, and Thomas spoke out bravely.
"Is your cousin, Miss Adams, well?" said he.
"She is pretty well, I thank you, sir."
"I've been wanting to--call," he began; then he hesitated again. His
handsome young face was blushing crimson.
Evelina's own color deepened. She turned her face away. "Cousin
Evelina never sees callers," she said, with grave courtesy; "perhaps you
did not know. She has not for a great many years."
"Yes, I did know it," returned Thomas Merriam; "that's the reason I
haven't called."
"Cousin Evelina is not strong," remarked the young girl, and there was
a savor of apology in her tone.
"But--" stammered Thomas; then he stopped again. "May I--has she
any objections to--anybody's coming to see you?"
Evelina started. "I am afraid Cousin Evelina would not approve," she
answered, primly. Then she looked up in his face, and a girlish
piteousness came into her own. "I am very sorry," she said, and there
was a catch in her voice.
Thomas bent over her impetuously. All his ministerial state fell from
him like an outer garment of the soul. He was young, and he had seen
this girl Sunday after Sunday. He had written all his sermons with her
image before his eyes, he had preached to her, and her only, and she
had come between his heart and all the nations of the earth in his
prayers. "Oh," he stammered out, "I am afraid you can't be very happy

living there the way you do. Tell me--"
Evelina turned her face away with sudden haughtiness. "My cousin
Evelina is very kind to me, sir," she said.
"But--you must be lonesome with nobody--of your own age--to speak
to," persisted Thomas, confusedly.
"I never cared much for youthful company. It is getting dark; I