“Well, then, Jim,” said the latter, when he rose to go, “you come up Monday or Tuesday of next week. Will you?”
“Yes. I—I think so.”
“Don’t think, do it. Let me know what train you’re comin’ on, and I’ll meet you at the depot.”
This last remark was what upset calculations. Pearson came on Monday, having written the day before. He did not mail the note himself, but trusted it to Mrs. Hepton, who was going out to attend evening service. She forgot it until the next day. So it happened that when he alighted from the train at the suburban station the captain was not there to meet him. He waited a while, and then, inquiring the way of the station agent, walked up to the house by himself. As he turned in at the front walk, Caroline came out of the door. They met, face to face.
It was a most embarrassing situation, particularly for Caroline; yet, with feminine resourcefulness, she dissembled her embarrassment to some extent and acknowledged his stammered, “Good afternoon, Miss Warren,” with a cool, almost cold, “How do you do, Mr. Pearson?” which chilled his pleasure at seeing her and made him wish devoutly that he had not been such a fool as to come. However, there he was, and he hastily explained his presence by telling her of the captain’s invitation for that day, how he had expected to meet him at the station, and, not meeting him, had walked up to the house.
“Is he in?” he asked.
No, Captain Elisha was not in. He had gone to see the sail-boat man. Not hearing from his friend, he concluded the latter would not come until the next day.
“He will be so sorry,” said Caroline.
Pearson was rather thankful than otherwise. The captain’s absence afforded him an opportunity to escape from a place where he was plainly unwelcome.
“Oh, never mind,” he said. “It is not important. I can run out another day. Just tell him I called, Miss Warren, please; that I wrote yesterday, but my letter must have gone astray. Good afternoon.”