One feature of that funeral I’ll be a long time forgetting was the unexpected appearance of old Caleb Gridley.
Old Caleb had traveled much since he lost his Duchess and disposed of his tannery. He had made money and knew how to make more money, but for the first time in his life he had begun to enjoy a little of it himself. He spent several winters in Florida and a couple in California. He was absent much in New York and Boston. Between times he turned a quick dollar wherever opportunity presented,—in timber lands, wood pulp, short-term notes or sure things in the stock market.
Nobody knew he was in town until the hour for the services. He came to the front door and rang the muffled bell. He was duly admitted and for the first time in my life, I truthfully believe, I saw the old tanner without his derby hat. He looked nude without it,—horribly nude. He held it, old style, by the brim in the crook of his left arm, at the same time proffering Mother Richards a little bouquet of pink rosebuds with his right.
“Bought ’em myself,” he announced in a husky whisper, “fer the baby.” He said it like an apology. “Babies always seemed to me like pink rosebuds. Just gimme a seat next the door. I’ll be goin’ presently.”
But the old man did not go presently. He sat through the entire services and when Nathan had helped his hysterical young wife away, it was Caleb who gave the undertaker what assistance was required.
“Come up and see me, bub,” he invited Nathan, meeting the young man when that distressing afternoon was a thing of the past and Milly had gone home to her mother’s. “Now and then I hanker for the old days when you an’ me used to read poetry.”
Nathan went. No place other than Caleb’s room in the hotel could have been more appropriate or consoling for him at the moment. Gridley loosened his vest and clothes, a process he designated as “easin’ up for comfort”, and the queer pair sat down together, it being several moments before either broke the silence. Finally the old man, with his massive chin thrust deep in his shirt, one big leg thrown over the other and a slipper sole swinging, cleared his throat. With his eyes averted, he declared huskily:
“Bub, you an’ me always liked poetry and read a heap o’ the stuff, ain’t we? And some of it was mighty good, specially Tennyson. But do you know, I made a discovery t’other day. I come across a copy o’ the Bible down to Bosting where the Psalms was all laid out, poetry-fashion. I never seen ’em that way before and it struck me they was the best sort o’ poetry I’d ever stumbled over. Specially the Twenty-third Psalm. Ever read the Twenty-third Psalm like verses o’ poetry, bub?”
“I don’t know that I have, Mr. Gridley.”
“Wonder if they gotta Bible here? I’ll show ye!”