He was turning to go, but she stopped him. She had fully made up her mind that, when he came, she would not meet him—remembering how she had treated him on the evening of her birthday, she would be ashamed to look him in the face. Besides, she could not meet him after writing that letter; it would be too brazen; he would think—all sorts of things. When he visited her uncle she would remain in her room, or go to the city or somewhere.
But now she had met him. And he had come in response to her uncle’s invitation, given because she herself had pleaded that it should be. To let him go away would be rude and ridiculous; and how could she explain to the captain?
“You mustn’t go, Mr. Pearson,” she said. “You must come in and wait; Captain Warren will be back soon, I’m sure.”
“Thank you; but I think I won’t wait. I can come another time.”
“But you must wait. I insist. Uncle Elisha will be dreadfully disappointed if you don’t. There isn’t a train for an hour, and he will return before that, I am sure. Please come in.”
Pearson was reluctant, but he could think of no reasonable excuse. So he entered the house, removed his overcoat and hat, and seated himself in the living room to await the captain’s return. Caroline excused herself, saying that she had an errand at the shop in the village. She made that errand as long as she could, but when she returned he was still there, and Captain Elisha had not appeared.
The conversation was forced, for a time. Each felt the embarrassment, and Pearson was still resentful of the manner in which she had greeted him on his arrival. But, as he looked at her, the resentment vanished, and the other feeling, that which he had determined to forget, returned. Captain Elisha had told him how brave she had been through it all, and, contrasting the little house with the former home, remembering the loss of friends and fortune, to say nothing of the unmasking of those whom she believed were her nearest and dearest, he wondered and admired more than ever. He understood how very hard it must have been for her to write that letter to him, a letter in which she justified his course at the cost of her own father’s honor. He longed to tell her that he understood and appreciated.
At last he could not resist the temptation.
“Miss Warren,” he said, “please excuse my speaking of this, but I must; I must thank you for writing me as you did. It was not necessary, it was too much to expect, too hard a thing for you to do. It makes me feel guilty. I—”
“Please don’t!” she interrupted. “Don’t speak in that way. It was right. It was what I should have done long ago.”