“But what a blessing, sir,” said Mrs. Gamp, “that there are such as you, to sell or let ’em out on hire!”
“Aye, Mrs. Gamp, you are right,” rejoined the undertaker. “We should be an honoured calling. We do good by stealth, and blush to have it mentioned in our little bills. How much consolation may I, even I,” cried Mr. Mould, “have diffused among my fellow-creatures by means of my four long-tailed prancers, never harnessed under ten pund ten!”
Mrs. Gamp had begun to make a suitable reply, when she was interrupted by the appearance of one of Mr. Mould’s assistants—his chief mourner in fact—an obese person, with his waistcoat in closer connection with his legs than is quite reconcilable with the established ideas of grace; with that cast of feature which is figuratively called a bottle nose; and with a face covered all over with pimples. He had been a tender plant once upon a time, but from constant blowing in the fat atmosphere of funerals, had run to seed.
“Well, Tacker,” said Mr. Mould, “is all ready below?”
“A beautiful show, sir,” rejoined Tacker. “The horses are prouder and fresher than ever I see ’em; and toss their heads, they do, as if they knowed how much their plumes cost. One, two, three, four,” said Mr. Tacker, heaping that number of black cloaks upon his left arm.
“Is Tom there, with the cake and wine?” asked Mr. Mould.
“Ready to come in at a moment’s notice, sir,” said Tacker.
“Then,” rejoined Mr. Mould, putting up his watch, and glancing at himself in the little shaving-glass, that he might be sure his face had the right expression on it; “then I think we may proceed to business. Give me the paper of gloves, Tacker. Ah, what a man he was! Ah, Tacker, Tacker, what a man he was!”
Mr. Tacker, who from his great experience in the performance of funerals, would have made an excellent pantomime actor, winked at Mrs. Gamp without at all disturbing the gravity of his countenance, and followed his master into the next room.
It was a great point with Mr. Mould, and a part of his professional tact, not to seem to know the doctor; though in reality they were near neighbours, and very often, as in the present instance, worked together. So he advanced to fit on his black kid gloves as if he had never seen him in all his life; while the doctor, on his part, looked as distant and unconscious as if he had heard and read of undertakers, and had passed their shops, but had never before been brought into communication with one.
“Gloves, eh?” said the doctor. “Mr. Pecksniff, after you.”
“I couldn’t think of it,” returned Mr. Pecksniff.
“You are very good,” said the doctor, taking a pair. “Well, sir, as I was saying, I was called up to attend that case at about half-past one o’clock. Cake and wine, eh? Which is port? Thank you.”
Mr. Pecksniff took some also.
“At about half-past one o’clock in the morning, sir,” resumed the doctor, “I was called up to attend that case. At the first pull of the night-bell I turned out, threw up the window, and put out my head. Cloak, eh? Don’t tie it too tight. That’ll do.”
Mr. Pecksniff having been likewise inducted into a similar garment, the doctor resumed.
“And put out my head. Hat, eh? My good friend, that is not mine. Mr. Pecksniff, I beg your pardon, but I think we have unintentionally made an exchange. Thank you. Well, sir, I was going to tell you—”
“We are quite ready,” interrupted Mould in a low voice.
“Ready, eh?” said the doctor. “Very good. Mr. Pecksniff, I’ll take an opportunity of relating the rest in the coach. It’s rather curious. Ready, eh? No rain, I hope?”
“Quite fair, sir,” returned Mould.
“I was afraid the ground would have been wet,” said the doctor, “for my glass fell yesterday. We may congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.” But seeing by this time that Mr. Jonas and Chuffey were going out at the door, he put a white pocket-handkerchief to his face as if a violent burst of grief had suddenly come upon him, and walked down side by side with Mr. Pecksniff.
Mr. Mould and his men had not exaggerated the grandeur of the arrangements. They were splendid. The four hearse-horses, especially, reared and pranced, and showed their highest action, as if they knew a man was dead, and triumphed in it. “They break us, drive us, ride us; ill-treat, abuse, and maim us for their pleasure—But they die; Hurrah, they die!”
So through the narrow streets and winding city ways, went Anthony Chuzzlewit’s funeral; Mr. Jonas glancing stealthily out of the coach-window now and then, to observe its effect upon the crowd; Mr. Mould as he walked along, listening with a sober pride to the exclamations of the bystanders; the doctor whispering his story to Mr. Pecksniff, without appearing to come any nearer the end of it; and poor old Chuffey sobbing unregarded in a corner. But he had greatly scandalized Mr. Mould at an early stage of the
