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."