moment, and thenEvelina stirred softly, as if to pass on, and Thomas spoke outbravely. "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. Hishandsome young face was blushing crimson.
Evelina's own color deepened. She turned her face away. "CousinEvelina never sees callers," she said, with grave courtesy; "perhapsyou did not know. She has not for a great many years."
"Yes, I did know it," returned Thomas Merriam; "that's the reason Ihaven't called."
"Cousin Evelina is not strong," remarked the young girl, and therewas a savor of apology in her tone.
"But--" stammered Thomas; then he stopped again. "May I--has she anyobjections to--anybody's coming to see you?"
Evelina started. "I am afraid Cousin Evelina would not approve," sheanswered, primly. Then she looked up in his face, and a girlishpiteousness came into her own. "I am very sorry," she said, and therewas a catch in her voice.
Thomas bent over her impetuously. All his ministerial state fell fromhim like an outer garment of the soul. He was young, and he had seenthis girl Sunday after Sunday. He had written all his sermons withher image before his eyes, he had preached to her, and her only, andshe had come between his heart and all the nations of the earth inhis prayers. "Oh," he stammered out, "I am afraid you can't be veryhappy living there the way you do. Tell me--"
Evelina turned her face away with sudden haughtiness. "My cousinEvelina is very kind to me, sir," she said.
"But--you must be lonesome with nobody--of your own age--to speakto," persisted Thomas, confusedly.
"I never cared much for youthful company. It is getting dark; I mustbe going," said Evelina. "I wish you good-evening, sir."
"Sha'n't I--walk home with you?" asked Thomas, falteringly.
"It isn't necessary, thank you, and I don't think Cousin Evelinawould approve," she replied, primly; and her light dress flutteredaway into the dusk and out of sight like the pale wing of a moth.
Poor Thomas Merriam walked on with his head in a turmoil. His heartbeat loud in his ears. "I've made her mad with me," he said tohimself, using the old rustic school-boy vernacular, from which hedid not always depart in his thoughts, although his ministerialdignity guarded his conversations. Thomas Merriam came of a simplehomely stock, whose speech came from the emotions of the heart, allunregulated by the usages of the schools. He was the first forgenerations who had aspired to college learning and a profession, andhad trained his tongue by the models of the educated and polite. Hecould not help, at times, the relapse of his thoughts, and theirspeaking to himself in the dialect of his family and his ancestors."She's 'way above me, and I ought to ha' known it," he further said,with the meekness of an humble but fiercely independent race, whichis meek to itself alone. He would have maintained his equality withhis last breath to an opponent; in his heart of hearts he felthimself below the scion of the one old gentle family of his nativevillage.
This young Evelina, by the fine dignity which had been born with herand not acquired by precept and example, by the sweetly formaldiction which seemed her native tongue, had filled him with awe. Now,when he thought she was angered with him, he felt beneath her ladyfeet, his nostrils choked with a spiritual dust of humiliation.
He went forward blindly. The dusk had deepened; from either side ofthe road, from the mysterious gloom of the bushes, came the twangs ofthe katydids, like some coarse rustic quarrellers, each striving forthe last word in a dispute not even dignified by excess of passion.
Suddenly somebody jostled him to his own side of the path. "That you,Thomas? Where you been?" said a voice in his ear.
"That you, father? Down to the post-office."
"Who was that you was talkin' with back there?"
"Miss Evelina Leonard."
"That girl that's stayin' there--to the old Squire's?"
"Yes." The son tried to move on, but his father stood before himdumbly for a minute. "I must be going, father. I've got to work on mysermon," Thomas said, impatiently.
"Wait a minute," said his father. "I've got something to say to ye,Thomas, an' this is as good a time to say it as any. There ain'tanybody 'round. I don't know as ye'll thank me for it--but mothersaid the other day that she thought you'd kind of an idea--she saidyou asked her if she thought it would be anything out of the way foryou to go up to the Squire's to make a call. Mother she thinks youcan step in anywheres, but I don't know. I know your book-learnin'and your bein' a minister has set you up a good deal higher than yourmother and me and any of our folks, and I feel as if you were goodenough for anybody, as far as that goes; but that ain't all. Somefolks have different startin'-points in this world, and they seethings different; and when they do, it ain't much use tryin' to makethem walk alongside and see things alike. Their eyes have gotdifferent cants, and they ain't able to help it. Now this girl she'srelated to the old Squire, and she's been brought up different, andshe started ahead, even if her father did lose all his property. She'ain't never eat in the kitchen, nor been scart to set down in theparlor, and satin and velvet, and silver spoons, and cream-pots'ain't never looked anything out of the common to her, and theyalways will to you. No matter how many such things you may live tohave, they'll always get a little the better of ye. She'll be 'wayabove 'em; and you won't, no matter how hard you try. Some ideascan't never mix; and when ideas can't mix, folks can't."
"I never said they could," returned Thomas, shortly. "I can't stop totalk any longer, father. I must go home."
"No, you wait a minute, Thomas. I'm goin' to say out what I startedto, and then I sha'n't ever bring it up again. What I was comin' atwas this: I wanted to warn ye a little. You mustn't set too muchstore by little things that you think mean consider'ble when theydon't. Looks don't count for much, and I want you to remember it, andnot be upset by 'em."
Thomas gave a great start and colored high. "I'd like to know whatyou mean, father," he cried, sharply.
"Nothin'. I don't mean nothin', only I'm older'n you, and it's comein my way to know some things, and it's fittin' you should profit byit. A young woman's looks at you don't count for much. I don't s'poseshe knows why she gives 'em herself half the time; they ain't likeus. It's best you should make up your mind to it; if you don't, youmay find it out by the hardest. That's all. I ain't never goin' tobring this up again."
"I'd like to know what you mean, father." Thomas's voice shook withembarrassment and anger.
"I ain't goin' to say anything more about it," replied the old man."Mary Ann Pease and Arabella Mann are both in the settin'-room withyour mother. I thought I'd tell ye, in case ye didn't want to see'em, and wanted to go to work on your sermon."
Thomas made an impatient ejaculation as he strode off. When hereached the large white house where he lived he skirted it carefully.The chirping treble of girlish voices came from the open sitting-roomwindow, and he caught a glimpse of a smooth brown head and a highshell comb in front of the candle-light. The young minister tiptoedin the back door and across the kitchen to the back stairs. Thesitting-room door was open, and the candle-light streamed out, andthe treble voices rose high. Thomas, advancing through the duskykitchen with cautious steps, encountered suddenly a chair in the darkcorner by the stairs, and just saved himself from falling. There wasa startled outcry from the sitting-room, and his mother came runninginto the kitchen with a candle.
"Who is it?" she demanded, valiantly. Then she started and gasped asher son confronted her. He shook a furious warning fist at thesitting-room door and his mother, and edged towards the stairs. Shefollowed him close. "Hadn't you better jest step in a minute?" shewhispered. "Them girls have been here an hour, and I know they'rewaitin' to see you." Thomas shook his head fiercely, and swunghimself around the corner into the dark crook of the back stairs. Hismother thrust the candle into his hand. "Take this, or you'll breakyour neck on them stairs," she whispered.
Thomas, stealing up the stairs like a cat, heard one of the girlscall to
his mother--"Is it robbers, Mis' Merriam? Want us to come an'help tackle 'em?"--and he fairly shuddered; for Evelina's gentle-ladyspeech was still in his ears, and this rude girlish call seemed tojar upon his sensibilities.
"The idea of any girl