Caleb West, Master Diver Part 36

'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? G.o.d 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 sh.o.r.e 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.