“He’s dead,” said the doctor, laying his hand over the man’s heart.
Captain Joe drew the blanket over the dead face, rose from his knees, and, with his arm in Caleb’s, left the scow and walked slowly toward the yacht. The doctor gathered up his remedies, gave some directions to the watchman, and joined Mrs. Leroy and the ladies on the lawn.
Only the watchman on the scow was left, and the silent stars,—stern, unflinching, pitiless, like the eyes of many judges.
“The diver knelt in a passive, listless way”
CHAPTER XXVI—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.”