“Yes, he’s home,” said Fred.
Tom Brent was buried on Tuesday morning. The Rev. Mr. Simpson, who, in spite of his age, had been prevailed upon to resume charge of his church, preached the sermon. He spoke feelingly of the “dear departed brother, who, though late, had found acceptance with the Lord,” and he ended with a prayer—which was a shot—for the “departed’s misguided son, who had rejected his Master’s call and was now wandering over the earth in rebellion and sin.” It was well that he did not see the face of Eliphalet Hodges then.
Dan’l Hastings nodded over the sermon. In the back part of the church, Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Smith whispered together and gaped at the two old mourners, and wondered where the boy was. They had “heerd he was in town.”
Bill Tompkins brought Elizabeth to the funeral.
Chapter XVII
In another town than Dexter the events narrated in the last chapter would have proved a nine days’ wonder, gained their meed of golden gossip, and then given way to some newer sensation. But not so here. This little town was not so prolific in startling episodes that she could afford to let such a one pass with anything less than the fullest comment. The sudden return of Tom Brent, his changed life, and his death were talked of for many a day. The narrative of his life was yet to be a stock camp-meeting sermon story, and the next generation of Dexterites was destined to hear of him. He became a part of the town’s municipal history.
Fred’s disappearance elicited no less remark. Speculations as to his whereabouts and his movements were rife. The storm of gossip which was going on around them was not lost on Eliphalet Hodges and his wife. But, save when some too adventurous inquirer called down upon himself Mrs. Hodges’ crushing rebuke or the old man’s mild resentment, they went their ways silent and uncommunicative.
They had heard from the young man first about two weeks after his departure. He had simply told them that he had got a place in the office of a packing establishment. Furthermore, he had begged that they let his former fellow-townsmen know nothing of his doings or of his whereabouts, and the two old people had religiously respected his wishes. Perhaps there was some reluctance on the part of Mrs. Hodges, for after the first letter she said, “It does seem like a sin an’ a shame, ’Liphalet, that we can’t tell these here people how nice Fred’s a-doin’, so’s to let ’em know that he don’t need none o’ their help. It jest makes my tongue fairly itch when I see Mis’ Smith an’ that bosom crony o’ her’n, Sallie Martin, a-nosin’ around tryin’ to see what they kin find out.”
“It is amazin’ pesterin’, Hester. I’m su’prised at how I feel about it myself, fur I never was no hand to want to gossip; but when I hear old Dan’l Hastings, that can’t move out o’ his cheer fur the rheumatiz—when I hear him a-sayin’ that he reckoned that Fred was a-goin’ to the dogs, I felt jest like up an’ tellin’ him how things was.”
“Why on airth didn’t you? Ef I’d ’a’ been there, I’d—”
“But you know what Freddie’s letter said. I kept still on that account; but I tell you I looked at Dan’l.” From his pocket the old man took the missive worn with many readings, and gazed at it fondly. “Yes,” he repeated, “I looked at Dan’l hard. I felt jest like up an’ tellin’ him.”
“Well, no wonder. I’m afeared I’d ’a’ clean furgot Freddie’s wishes an’ told him everything. To think of old Dan’l Hastings, as old he is, a-gossipin’ about other people’s business! Sakes alive! he needs every breath he’s got now fur his prayers—as all of us pore mortals do now,” added Mrs. Hodges, as she let her eyes fall upon her own wrinkled hands.
“Yes, we’re old, Hester, you an’ I; but I’m mighty glad o’ the faith I’ve been a-storin’ up, fur it’s purty considerable of a help now.”
“Of course, ’Liphalet, faith is a great comfort, but it’s a greater one to know that you’ve allus tried to do yore dooty the very best you could; not a-sayin’ that you ain’t tried.”
“Most of us tries, Hester, even Dan’l.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to talk about Dan’l Hastings. He’s jest naturally spiteful an’ crabbed. I declare, I don’t see how he’s a-goin’ to squeeze into the kingdom.”
“Oh, never mind that, Hester. God ain’t a-goin’ to ask you to find a way.”
Mrs. Hodges did not reply. She and her husband seldom disagreed now, because he seldom contradicted or found fault with her. But if this dictum of his went unchallenged, it was not so with some later conclusions at which he arrived on the basis of another of Fred’s letters.
It was received several months after the settlement of the young man in Cincinnati, and succeeded a long silence. “You will think,” it ran, “that I have forgotten you; but it is not so. My life has been very full here of late, it is true, but not so full as to exclude you and good Aunt Hester. I feel that I am growing. I can take good full breaths here. I couldn’t in Dexter: the air was too rarefied by religion.”
Mrs. Hodges gasped as her husband read this aloud, but there was the suspicion of a smile about the corners of Eliphalet’s mouth.
“You ask me if I attend any church,” the letter went on. “Yes, I do. When I first left, I thought that I never wanted to see the inside of a meetinghouse again. But there is a young lady in our office who is very much interested in church work, and somehow she has got me interested too, and I go to her church every Sunday. It is Congregational.”
“Congregational!” exclaimed Mrs. Hodges. “Congregational! an’ he borned an’ raised up in the Methodist faith. It’s the first
