Caleb West, Master Diver Part 25

"Oh, you needn't be afraid; I'm not going to hurt you."

The girl peered into the gloom. She thought the voice was familiar, though she was not sure. She could distinguish only a shadowy face.

"What makes you so skittish, anyhow?" the man asked again,-in a lower tone this time. "You didn't use to be so. I thought maybe you might like to drive over to Medford and see the show to-night."

Betty made no answer, but she took a step nearer to him, trying to identify him. She was not afraid; only curious. Then all at once it occurred to her that it could be for no good purpose he had stopped her. None of the men had spoken to her in the street, even in the daytime, since her return home.

"Please let me pa.s.s," she said quietly and firmly.

"Oh, you needn't be in a hurry. We've got all night. Come along, now, won't you? You used to like me once, before you shook the old man."

Betty knew him now!

The terror of her position overcame her; a deathly faintness seized her.

She saw it all; she knew why this man dared. She realized the loneliness and desolation of her position, poor child that she was.

Every cabin near her filled with warmth and cheer and comfort, and she friendless and alone! Not a woman near but had the strong arm of husband or brother to help and defend her. The very boats in the harbor, with their beacon-lights aloft, protected and safe. Only she in danger; only she unguarded, waylaid, open to insult, even by a man like this.

She stood s.h.i.+vering, looking into his cowardly face. Then rousing herself to her peril, she sprang toward the road. In an instant the man had seized her wrist. She felt his hot breath on her face.

"Oh, come now, none of that! Say, why ain't I as good as Bill Lacey?

Give me a kiss."

"Let me go! _Let me go!_ How dare you!" she cried, struggling in his grasp. When she found his strength gaining on her, she screamed.

Hardly had she made her outcry, when from behind the fish-house a man with a flowing beard darted into the shadows, flung himself on Betty's a.s.sailant, and dragged him out under the glare of the street lamp. The girl fled up the road without looking behind.

"That's what ye're up to, is it, Mr. Carleton?" said the man, holding the other with the grip of a steel vise. "I 'spected as much when I see ye pa.s.sin' my place. d.a.m.n ye! If it warn't that it would be worse for her, I'd kill ye!"

Every muscle in the speaker's body was tense with anger. Carleton's head was bent back, his face livid from the pressure of his a.s.sailant's fingers twisted about his throat.

The man slowly relaxed his hold. "Ain't she got trouble 'nough without havin' a skunk like you a-runnin' foul o' her?"

Carleton made a quick gesture as if to spring aside and run. The diver saw the movement and stepped in front of him.

"Ain't ye ashamed o' yerself? Ain't it mean o' ye to make up to a gal like Betty?" His voice was low and measured.

"What's it your business, anyhow?" Carleton gasped between his breaths, shaking himself like a tousled dog. "What are you putting on frills about her for, anyhow? She's nothing to you, if she is your wife. I guess I know what I'm doing."

Caleb's fingers grew hard and rigid as claws.

"So do I know what ye're a-doin'. Ye'd drag that child down an' stomp on her, if ye could. Ye'd make a _thing_ of her,"-the words came with a hiss,-"you-you-callin' yerself a man!"

"Why don't you take care of her, then?" snarled Carleton, with an a.s.sumed air of composure, as he adjusted his collar and cuffs.

"That's what I'm here for; that's why I follered ye; there ain't a night since it begun to git dark I ain't watched her home. She's not yourn; she's mine. Look at me,"-Caleb stepped closer and raised his clinched fist. "If ever ye speak to her agin, so help me G.o.d, I _will_ kill ye!"

With one swing of his arm he threw the superintendent out of his way, and strode up the street.

Carleton staggered from the blow, and would have fallen but for the wall of the fish-house. For a moment he stood in the road looking after Caleb's retreating figure. Then, with a forced bravado in his voice, he called out in the darkness, "If you think so d.a.m.n much of her, why don't you take her home?" and slunk away toward the village.

The old man did not turn. If he heard, he made no sign. He walked on, with his head down, his eyes on the road. As he pa.s.sed Captain Joe's he loitered at the gate until he saw the light flash up in Betty's bedroom; then he kept on to his own cabin.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SONG OF THE FIRE

The fire was nearly out when Caleb entered his kitchen door and drew a chair to the stove. Carleton's taunting words, "Why don't you take her home?" rang in his ears. Their sting hurt him. Everything else seemed to fall away from his mind. He knew why he did not take her home, he said to himself; every one else knew why,-every one up and down Keyport knew what Betty had done to ruin him. If she was friendless, tramping the road, within sight of her own house, whose fault was it?

Not his. He had never done anything but love her and take care of her.

He reached for a pair of tongs, stirred the coals, and threw on a single piece of driftwood. The fire blazed up brightly at once, its light flickering on the diver's ruddy face, and as quickly died out.

"Why don't I take care of 'er, eh? Why didn't she take care of herself?" he cried aloud, gazing into the smouldering embers. "She sees what it is now trampin' the road nights, runnin' up agin such curs as him. He's a nice un, he is. I wish I'd choked the life out'er him; such fellers ain't no right to live," looking about him as if he expected to find Carleton behind the door, and as quickly recovering himself. "I wonder if he hurt 'er,"-his voice had softened. "She screamed turrible. I ought, maybe, to 'a' ketched up to her. Poor little gal, she ain't used to this." He was silent awhile, his head bent, his shoulders updrawn, his big frame stretched out in the chair.

"She ain't nothin' but a child, anyhow," he broke out again,-"Cap'n Joe says so. He says I don't think o' this; maybe he's right. He says I'm bigger an' twice as old's she be, an' ought'er know more; that it ain't me she's hurted,-it's herself; that I married her to take care of 'er; and that the fust time she got in a hole I go back on 'er, 'cause she's dragged me in arter 'er. Well, ain't I a-takin' care of 'er? Ain't I split squar' in two every cent I've earned since she run away with that"-

Caleb paused abruptly. Even to himself he never mentioned Lacey's name. Bending forward he poked the fire vigorously, raking the coals around the single stick of driftwood. "It's all very well for th'

cap'n to talk; he ain't gone through what I have."

Pus.h.i.+ng back his chair he paced the small room, talking to himself as he walked, pausing to address his sentences to the several articles of furniture,-the chairs, the big table, the kitchen sink, whatever came in his way. It was an old trick of his when alone. "I ain't a-goin' to have 'er come home so late no more," he continued. His voice had sunk to a gentle whisper. "I'm goin' to tell them folks she works for that they've got to let 'er out afore dark, or she shan't stay." He was looking now at an old rocker as if it were the shopkeeper himself.

"She'll be so scared arter this she won't have a minute's peace. She needn't worrit herself, though, 'bout that skunk. She's shut o'

_him_. But there'll be more of 'em. They all think that now I've throwed 'er off they kin do as they've a mind to." He stopped again and gazed down at the floor, seemingly absorbed in a hole in one of the planks. "Cap'n Joe sez I ain't got no business to throw 'er off.

He wouldn't treat a dog so,-that's what ye said, cap'n; I ain't never goin' to forgit it. _I_ ain't throwed _her_ off. She throwed _me_ off,-lef' me here without a word; an' ye know it, cap'n. Ye want me to take 'er back, do ye?" He spoke with as much earnestness as though the captain stood before him. "S'pose I do, an' she finds out arter all that her comin' home was 'cause she was skeared of it all, and that she still loved"-

He stopped, reseated himself, and picking up another stick threw it on the fire, snuggling the two together. The sticks, cheered by each other's warmth, burst into a crackling flame.

"Poor little Betty!" he began again aloud. "I'm sorry for ye.

Everybody's agin ye, child, 'cept Cap'n Joe's folks. I know it hurts ye turrible to have folks look away from ye. Ye always loved to have folks love ye. I ain't got nothin' agin ye, child, indeed I ain't. It was my fault, not yourn. I told Cap'n Joe so; ask him,-he'll tell ye." He turned toward the empty chair beside him, as if he saw her sad face there. "I know it's hard, child," shaking his head. "Ain't n.o.body feels it more 'n me,-ain't n.o.body feels it more 'n me. I guess I must take care o' ye; I guess there ain't n.o.body else but me kin do it."

The logs blazed cheerily; the whole room was alight. "I wish ye loved me like ye did onct, little woman,-I wouldn't want no better happiness; jest me an' you, like it useter was. I wonder if ye do? No, I know ye don't." The last words came with a positive tone.

For a long time he remained still, gazing at the blazing logs locked together, the flames dancing about them. Then he got up and roamed mechanically around the room, his thoughts away with Betty and her helpless condition, and her rightful dependence on him. In the same dreary way he opened the cupboard, took out a piece of cold meat and some slices of stale bread, laying them on the table, poured some tea into a cup and put it on the stove; it was easier making the tea that way than in a pot. He drew the table toward the fire, so that his supper would be within reach, stirring the brewing tea meanwhile with a fork he had in his hand, and began his frugal meal. Since Betty left he had never set the table. It seemed less lonely to eat this way.

Just as he had finished there came a knock at the front door. Caleb started, and put down his cup. Who could come at this hour? Craning his head toward the small open hall, he saw through the gla.s.s in the door the outlines of a woman's figure approaching him through the hall. His face flushed, and his heart seemed to jump in his throat.

"It's me, Caleb," said the woman. "It's Aunty Bell. The door was open, so I didn't wait. Cap'n sent me up all in a hurry. He's jes' come in from the Ledge, and hollered to me from the tug to send up and get ye.

The pump's broke on the big h'ister. A new one's got to be cast to-night and bored out to-morrer, if it _is_ Sunday. Cap'n says everything's stopped at the Ledge, and they can't do another stroke till this pump's fixed. Weren't n.o.body home but Betty, and so I come myself. Come right along; he wants ye at the machine shop jes' 's quick as ye kin git there."

Caleb kept his seat and made no reply. Something about the shock of discovering who the woman was had stunned him. He did not try to explain it to himself; he was conscious only of a vague yet stinging sense of disappointment. Automatically, like a trained soldier obeying a command, he bent forward in his chair, drew his thick shoes from under the stove, slipped his feet into them, and silently followed Aunty Bell out of the house and down the road. When they reached Captain Joe's gate he looked up at Betty's window. There was no light.

"Has Betty gone to bed?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, more 'n an hour ago. She come home late, all tuckered out. I see 'er jes' before I come out. She said she warn't sick, but she wouldn't eat nothin'."

Caleb paused, looked at her as if he were about to speak again, hesitated, then, without a word, walked away.