I've counted on your goin'. So has Abbie. She's read your book, and she says she's crazy to see the feller that wrote it. She's told the minister and a whole lot more, and they're all comin' in to look at you. 'Tain't often we have a celebrated character in our town. You've _got_ to go."
"Thank you, Captain. I appreciate the invitation and your kindness, but," with decision, "I can't accept."
"Can't you come later? Say Thanksgivin' mornin'? Or even the day after?"
"No."
"But why not? What's the matter with you all of a sudden? Come here! let me look at you."
He took the young man by the arm and led him, almost by main strength, close to the lighted window of the station. It was late, and the afternoon was gloomy. Here, by the lamplight streaming through the window, he could see his face more clearly. He looked at it.
"Humph!" he grunted, after a moment's scrutiny. "You've made up your mind; I can see that. Have you told Caroline? Does she know?"
"Yes. You'll have to excuse me, Captain Warren; my train is coming."
"What did she say?"
Pearson smiled, but there was little mirth in the smile. "I think she agrees with me that it is best," he observed.
"Humph! She does, hey? I want to know! Look here, Jim! have you and she--"
He got no further, for Pearson broke away, and, with a hurried "Good night," strode up the platform to meet the city-bound train. Captain Elisha watched it go and then walked slowly homeward, his hands in his pockets, troubled and wondering.
He entered the house by the back door, a remnant of South Denboro habit, and found Annie in the kitchen.
"Where's Caroline?" he asked.
"She's in the living room, sir, I think. Mr. Pearson has been here and just gone."
"Um-hm. So I heard. Say, Annie, you needn't hurry dinner; I ain't ready for it yet awhile."
He hung his coat and hat in the back hall and quietly entered the living room. The lamp was not lighted, and the room was dark, but he saw his niece, a shadowy figure, seated by the window. He crossed to her side.
"Well, Caroline," he said, cheerfully, "I'm home again."
She turned. "I see you are," she answered.
"Humph! your eyes must be better than mine then. I can't see anything in here. It's darker than a nigger's pocket. Suppose we turn on the glim."
He struck a match as he said it. By its light he saw her face. The match burned down to his finger tips and then he extinguished it.
"I don't know but the dark is just as good and more economical," he observed. "No use of encouragin' the graspin' ile trust unless it's necessary. Let's you and me sit here in the dark and talk. No objection to talkin' to your back country relation, have you?"
"No."
"That's good. Well, Caroline, I'm goin' to talk plain again. You can order me to close my hatch any time you feel like it; that's skipper's privilege, and you're boss of this craft, you know. Dearie, I just met Jim Pearson. He tells me he's decided not to go on this Cape cruise of ours. He said you agreed with him 'twas best he shouldn't go. Do you mind tellin' me why?"
She did not answer. He waited a minute and then continued.
"Course, I know I ain't got any real right to ask," he went on; "but I think more of you and Jim than I do of anybody else, and so maybe you'll excuse me. Have you and he had a fallin' out?"
Still she was silent. He sighed. "Well," he observed, "I see you have, and I don't blame you for not wantin' to talk about it. I'm awful sorry. I'd begun to hope that.... However, we'll change the subject. Or we won't talk at all, if you'd rather not."
Another pause. Then she laid her hand on his.
"Uncle," she said, "you know I always want to talk to you. And, as for the right to ask, you have the right to ask anything of me at any time. And I should have told you, of my own accord, by and by. Mr. Pearson and I have not quarreled; but I think--I think it best that I should not see him again."
"You do? Not see him--any more--at all? Why, Caroline!"
"Not for a long, long time, at least. It would only make it harder--for him; and it's of no use."
Captain Elisha sighed again. "I guess I understand, Caroline. I presume likely I do. He--he asked somethin' of you--and you couldn't say yes to him. That was it, I suppose. Needn't tell me unless you really want to, you understand," he added, hastily.
"But I do. I ought to tell you. I should have told you before, and perhaps, if I had, he would not have ... Uncle Elisha, Mr. Pearson asked me to be his wife."
The captain gave no evidence of surprise.
"Yes," he replied, gravely, "I judged that was it. And you told him you couldn't, I suppose. Well, dearie, that's a question nobody ought to answer but the one. She's the only one that knows what that answer should be, and, when other folks interfere and try to influence, it generally means trouble. I'm kind of disappointed; I'll own up to that. I think Jim is a fine, honest, able young man, and he'd make a good husband, I'm sure. And, so far as his business, or profession, or whatever you call it, goes, he's doin' pretty well and sartin to do better. Of course, 'twa'n't that that kept you from--"
"Uncle Elisha! Am _I_ so rich that I should--"
"There! there, my girl! I know 'twa'n't that, of course. I was only thinkin' out loud, that's all--tryin' to find reasons. You didn't care for him enough, I suppose. Caroline, you don't care for anybody else, do you? You don't still care for that other feller, that--"
"Uncle!" she sprang up, hurt and indignant. "How can you?" she cried. "How could you ask that? What must you think of me?"
"Please, Caroline," he protested; "please don't. I beg your pardon. I was a fool! I knew better. Don't go. Tell me the real reason. Sit down again and let's talk this out. Do sit down! that's it. Now tell me; was it that you couldn't care for Jim enough?"
She hesitated.
"Was it?" he repeated.
"I--I like Mr. Pearson very much. I respect and admire him."
"But you don't love him. I see. Well," sadly, "there's another one of my dreams gone to smash. However, you did just right, dearie. Feelin' that way, you couldn't marry him, of course."
He would have risen now, and she detained him.
"That was not the reason," she said, in a low tone.
"Hey?" he bent toward her. "What?" he cried. "That wa'n't the reason, you say? You do care for him?"
She was silent.
"Do you?" he repeated, gently. "And yet you sent him away. Why?"
She faltered, tried to speak, and then turned away. He put his arm about her and stroked her hair.
"Don't you cry, dearie," he begged. "I won't bother you any more. You can tell me some other time--if you want to. Or you needn't tell me at all. It's all right; only don't cry. 'Cause if you do," with sudden determination, "I shall cry, too; and, bein' as I ain't used to the exercise, I may raise such a row that Annie'll send for the constable. You wouldn't want that to happen, I know."
This unexpected announcement had the desired effect; Caroline laughed hysterically and freed herself from his arm.
"I mustn't be so silly," she said. "I had made up my mind to tell you everything, and I shall. My not caring for Mr. Pearson was not my reason for refusing him. The reasons were two--you