CALEB TRIMS HIS LIGHTS
Caleb and Captain Joe sat on the yacht’s deck on their way back to
Keyport. The air-pump had been lifted into its case, and the dress and
equipment had been made ready to be put ashore at the paraphernalia
dock.
The moon had risen, flooding the yacht with white light and striping
the deck with the clear-cut, black shadows of the stanchions. On the
starboard bow burned Keyport Light, and beyond flashed Little Gull, a
tiny star on the far-off horizon.
Caleb leaned back on a settee, his eyes fixed on the glistening sea.
He had not spoken a word since his eyes rested on Lacey’s face.
“Caleb,” said Captain Joe, laying his hand on the diver’s knee, “mebbe
ye don’t feel right to me fur sayin’ what I did, but I didn’t want ye
to let 'im go an’ not tell 'im ye hadn’t no hatred in yer heart toward
’im. It’d come back to plague ye, and ye’ve had sufferin’ enough
already ’long o’ him. He won’t worry you nor her no more. He’s lived a
mean, stinkin’ life, an’ he’s died ’s I allus knowed he would,—with
nobody’s hand ter help ’im. Caleb,”—he paused for an instant and
looked into the diver’s face,—“you ’n me ’s knowed each other by an’
large a many a year; ye know what I want ye to do; ye know what hurts
me an’ has ever sence the child come back. He’s out o’ yer hands now.
God’s punished him. Be good to yerself an’ to her, an’ forgive her.
Take Betty back.”
The old man turned and slipped his hand over Captain Joe’s,—a hard,
horny hand, with a heart-throb in every finger-tip.
“Cap’n Joe, I know how ye feel. There ain’t nothin’ between us; but
yer wrong about _him_. As I stood over him to-night I fit it all
out with myself. If he’d ’a’ lived long ’nough I’d ’a’ told him, jes’
’s ye wanted me to. But yer ain’t never had this thing right; I ain’t
a-blamin’ her.”
“Then take ’er home, an’ quit this foolish life ye’re leadin’, an’ her
heart a-breakin’ every day for love o’ ye. Ain’t ye lonely ’nough
without her? God knows she is without you.”
Caleb slowly withdrew his hand from Captain Joe’s and put his arms
behind his head, making a rest of his interlocked fingers.
“When ye say she’s a-breakin’ her heart for me, Cap’n Joe, ye don’t
know it all.” His eyes looked up at the sky as he spoke. “'T ain’t
that I ain’t willin’ to take ’er back. I allus wanted to help her, an’
I allus wanted to take care of her,—not to have her take care o’ me.
I made up my mind this mornin’, when I see how folks was a-treatin’
'er, to ask ’er to come home. If I’d treat ’er right, they’d treat ’er
right; I know it. But I warn’t the man for her, an’ she don’t love me
now no more’n she did. That’s what hurts me an’ makes me afraid. Now
I’ll tell ye why I know she don’t love me; tell ye something ye don’t
know at all,”—he turned his head as he spoke, and looked the captain
full in the eyes, his voice shaking,—“an’ when I tell ye I want to
say I ain’t a-blamin’ her.” The words that followed came like the slow
ticking of a clock. “He’s—been—a-writin’—to ’er—ever since—she
left ’im. Bert Simmons—showed me the letters.”
“You found that out, did ye?” said Captain Joe, a sudden angry tremor
in his voice. “Ye’re right; he has! Been a-writin’ to her ever sence
she left him,—sometimes once a month, sometimes once a week, an’
lately about every day.”
Caleb raised his head. This last was news to him.
“And that ain’t all. Every one o’ them letters she’s brought to me,
jes’ ’s fast as she got ’em, an’ I locked ’em in my sea-chest along o’
the money ye gin her every week, an’ the money and letters are there
now. An’ there’s more to it yet. _There ain’t nary seal broke on any
one of Lacey’s._ Whoever’s been a-lyin’ to ye, Caleb, ain’t told ye
one half o’ what he ought to know.”
* * * * *
Captain Joe swung back his garden gate and walked quickly up the plank
walk, his big, burly body swaying as he moved. The house was dark,
except for a light in the kitchen window, and another in Betty’s room.
He saw Aunty Bell in a chair by the table, but he hurried by, on his
way upstairs, without a word. Caleb followed with slow and measured
step. When he reached the porch, Aunty Bell had left her seat and was
standing on the mat.
“Why, Caleb, be ye comin’ in too?” she said. “I’ll git supper for both
o’ ye. Guess ye’re tuckered out.”
“I don’t want no supper,” he answered gravely, without looking at her.
“I’ll go into the settin’-room an’ wait, if ye’ll let me.”
She opened the door silently for him, wondering if he was in one of
his moods. The only light in the room came from the street-lamp,
stenciling the vines on the drawn shades.
“I’ll fetch a light for ye, Caleb,” she said quietly, and turned
toward the kitchen. In the hall she paused, her knees shaking, a
prayer in her heart. Captain Joe and Betty were coming down the
stairs, Betty’s face hidden on his shoulder, her trembling fingers
clinging to his coat.
[Illustration: “Ain’t nothin’ to skeer ye, child”]
“Ain’t nothin’ to skeer ye, child,” the captain said, patting the
girl’s cheek as he stopped at the threshold. “It’s all right. He’s in
there waitin’,” and he closed the door upon them.
Then he walked straight toward Aunty Bell, two big tears rolling down
his cheeks, and, laying his hand upon her shoulder, said, “Caleb’s got
his lights trimmed, an’ Betty’s found harbor. The little gal’s home.”
* * * * *
In another room, some miles away, before a window that looked upon the
sea, sat a woman, with cheeks tight pressed between her hands. The
low-lying drowsy moon shed a white light on her thoughtful face and
silvered the fluff of loosened hair that fell about her shoulders. She
had sat there for hours—long after the house was silent. Outside the
world was still: only the lapping of little wave-tongues along the
shore was heard; the croaking of frogs in the marsh, and the cry of
the night-hawk circling as he flew.
On the desk beside her lay an open letter with a Paris postmark. It
had come by the late mail.
Once in a while her eyes would rest on the shimmer of silver framing
the Ledge. Then some remembrance of the day would rush over her: the
anxious waiting for the verdict; Sanford’s upraised hand as he entered
the cabin; the gaunt outline of the wrecked trestle and the ghostly
lantern that burned above the head of the dying man. From out the
turmoil of these contending memories one face shone clear and strong,
with fixed and questioning eyes.
In that one look she had read his inmost depth. She had caught the
sudden uplifting of the lids, the wondering glance at her joyous words
of praise, and the shadow that followed.
“It is best so,” she whispered to herself at last. “It is the only
way. I did not mean to hurt him,—only to help. Help him—and me.”
With a tired, listless air, she rose from her seat, folded the letter
slowly, and locked it in her desk.
THE END.
The Riverside Press
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FICTION AND TRAVEL
By F. Hopkinson Smith.
CALEB WEST, MASTER DIVER. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.
TOM GROGAN. Illustrated. 12mo, gilt top, $1.50.
A GENTLEMAN VAGABOND, AND SOME OTHERS. 16mo, $1.25.
COLONEL CARTER OF CARTERSVILLE.
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GONDOLA DAYS. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.
WELL-WORN ROADS OF SPAIN, HOLLAND, AND ITALY,
traveled by a Painter in search of the Picturesque.
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End of Project Gutenberg's Caleb West, Master Diver, by F. Hopkinson Smith