can't live anyway. I hadnever thought of such a thing before. I was wondering how I couldmake it comfortable for Evelina here."
But his father did not seem to listen. "Countin' on that!" herepeated. "Countin' on a poor old soul, that 'ain't ever had anythingto set her heart on but a few posies, dyin' to make room for otherfolks to have what she's been cheated out on. Countin' on that!" Theold man's voice broke into a hoarse sob; he got up, and wenthurriedly out of the room.
"Why, father!" his son called after him, in alarm. He got up tofollow him, but his father waved him back and shut the door hard.
"Father must be getting childish," Thomas thought, wonderingly. Hedid not bring up the subject to him again.
Evelina Adams died in March. One morning the bell tolled seventy longmelancholy tones before people had eaten their breakfasts. They ranto their doors and counted. "It's her," they said, nodding, when theyhad waited a little after the seventieth stroke. Directly Mrs. MarthaLoomis and her two girls were seen hustling importantly down theroad, with their shawls over their heads, to the Squire's house."Mis' Loomis can lay her out," they said. "It ain't likely that youngEvelina knows anything about such things. Guess she'll be thankfulshe's got somebody to call on now, if she 'ain't mixed much with theLoomises." Then they wondered when the funeral would be, and thewomen furbished up their black gowns and bonnets, and even in a fewcases drove to the next town and borrowed from relatives; but therewas a great disappointment in store for them.
Evelina Adams died on a Saturday. The next day it was announced fromthe pulpit that the funeral would be private, by the particularrequest of the deceased. Evelina Adams had carried her delicateseclusion beyond death, to the very borders of the grave. Nobody,outside the family, was bidden to the funeral, except the doctor, theminister, and the two deacons of the church. They were to be thebearers. The burial also was to be private, in the Squire's familyburial-lot, at the north of the house. The bearers would carry thecoffin across the yard, and there would not only be no funeral, butno funeral procession, and no hearse. "It don't seem scarcelydecent," the women whispered to each other; "and more than all that,she ain't goin' to be _seen_." The deacons' wives were especiallydisturbed by this last, as they might otherwise have gained manyinteresting particulars by proxy.
Monday was the day set for the burial. Early in the morning oldThomas Merriam walked feebly up the road to the Squire's house.People noticed him as he passed. "How terribly fast he's grown oldlately!" they said. He opened the gate which led into the Squire'sfront yard with fumbling fingers, and went up the walk to the frontdoor, under the Corinthian pillars, and raised the brass knocker.
Evelina opened the door, and started and blushed when she saw him.She had been crying; there were red rings around her blue eyes, andher pretty lips were swollen. She tried to smile at Thomas's father,and she held out her hand with shy welcome.
"I want to see her," the old man said, abruptly.
Evelina started, and looked at him wonderingly. "I--don't believe--Iknow who you mean," said she. "Do you want to see Mrs. Loomis?"
"No; I want to see her."
"_Her?_"
"Yes, _her_."
Evelina turned pale as she stared at him. There was something strangeabout his face. "But--Cousin Evelina," she faltered--"she--didn'twant-- Perhaps you don't know: she left special directions thatnobody was to look at her."
"I _want to see her_," said the old man, and Evelina gave way. Shestood aside for him to enter, and led him into the great northparlor, where Evelina Adams lay in her mournful state. The shutterswere closed, and one on entering could distinguish nothing but thatlong black shadow in the middle of the room. Young Evelina opened ashutter a little way, and a slanting shaft of spring sunlight came inand shot athwart the coffin. The old man tiptoed up and leaned overand looked at the dead woman. Evelina Adams had left furtherinstructions about her funeral, which no one understood, but whichwere faithfully carried out. She wished, she had said, to be attiredfor her long sleep in a certain rose-colored gown, laid away in roseleaves and lavender in a certain chest in a certain chamber. Therewere also silken hose and satin shoes with it, and these were to beput on, and a wrought lace tucker fastened with a pearl brooch.
It was the costume she had worn one Sabbath day back in her youth,when she had looked across the meeting-house and her eyes had metyoung Thomas Merriam's; but nobody knew nor remembered; even youngEvelina thought it was simply a vagary of her dead cousin's.
"It don't seem to me decent to lay away anybody dressed so," saidMrs. Martha Loomis; "but of course last wishes must be respected."
The two Loomis girls said they were thankful nobody was to see thedeparted in her rose-colored shroud.
Even old Thomas Merriam, leaning over poor Evelina, cold and dead inthe garb of her youth, did not remember it, and saw no meaning in it.He looked at her long. The beautiful color was all faded out of theyellow-white face; the sweet full lips were set and thin; the closedblue eyes sunken in dark hollows; the yellow hair showed a line ofgray at the edge of her old woman's cap, and thin gray curls layagainst the hollow cheeks. But old Thomas Merriam drew a long breathwhen he looked at her. It was like a gasp of admiration and wonder; astrange rapture came into his dim eyes; his lips moved as if hewhispered to her, but young Evelina could not hear a sound. Shewatched him, half frightened, but finally he turned to her. "I 'ain'tseen her--fairly," said he, hoarsely--"I 'ain't seen her, savin' aglimpse of her at the window, for over forty year, and she 'ain'tchanged, not a look. I'd have known her anywheres. She's the same asshe was when she was a girl. It's wonderful--wonderful!"
Young Evelina shrank a little. "We think she looks natural," shesaid, hesitatingly.
"She looks jest as she did when she was a girl and used to come intothe meetin'-house. She _is_ jest the same," the old man repeated, inhis eager, hoarse voice. Then he bent over the coffin, and his lipsmoved again. Young Evelina would have called Mrs. Loomis, for she wasfrightened, had he not been Thomas's father, and had it not been forher vague feeling that there might be some old story to explain thiswhich she had never heard. "Maybe he was in love with poor CousinEvelina, as Thomas is with me," thought young Evelina, using her ownleaping-pole of love to land straight at the truth. But she nevertold her surmise to any one except Thomas, and that was longafterwards, when the old man was dead. Now she watched him with herblue dilated eyes. But soon he turned away from the coffin and madehis way straight out of the room, without a word. Evelina followedhim through the entry and opened the outer door. He turned on thethreshold and looked back at her, his face working.
"Don't ye go to lottin' too much on what ye're goin' to get throughfolks that have died an' not had anything," he said; and he shook hishead almost fiercely at her.
"No, I won't. I don't think I understand what you mean, sir,"stammered Evelina.
The old man stood looking at her a moment. Suddenly she saw the tearsrolling over his old cheeks. "I'm much obliged to ye for lettin' ofme see her," he said, hoarsely, and crept feebly down the steps.
Evelina went back trembling to the room where her dead cousin lay,and covered her face, and closed the shutter again. Then she wentabout her household duties, wondering. She could not understand whatit all meant; but one thing she understood--that in some way this olddead woman, Evelina Adams, had gotten immortal youth and beauty inone human heart. "She looked to him just as she did when she was agirl," Evelina kept thinking to herself with awe. She said nothingabout it to Mrs. Martha Loomis or her daughters. They had been in theback part of the house, and had not heard old Thomas Merriam come in,and they never knew about it.
Mrs. Loomis and the two girls stayed in the house day and night untilafter the funeral. They confidently expected to live there in thefuture. "It isn't likely that Evelina Adams thought a young woman noolder than Evelina Leonard could live here alone in this great housewith nobody but that old Sarah Judd. It would not be proper norbecoming," said Martha Loomis to her two daughters; and they agreed,and brought over many of the
ir possessions under cover of night tothe Squire's house during the interval before the funeral.
But after the funeral and the reading of the will the Loomises madesundry trips after dusk back to their old home, with their bestpetticoats and cloaks over their arms, and their bonnets dangling bytheir strings at their sides. For Evelina Adams's last will andtestament had been read, and therein provision was made for thecontinuance of the annuity heretofore paid them for their support,with the condition affixed that not one night
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