This individual was in reality verging upon sixty; but as he dyed his hair and whiskers in order to maintain an uniform aspect of funereal solemnity, he looked ten years younger. His manner was grave and important; and, although the rain was descending in torrents, he would not for the world depart from that measured pace which was habitual to him. He held an old umbrella above his head, to protect a battered hat, round which a piece of crape was sewn in three or four clumsy folds; but the torrent penetrated through the cotton tegument, and two streams poured from the broad brims of his hat adown his anti-laughter-looking and rigidly demure countenance.
When he arrived at about the middle of Smart Street, he halted, examined the numbers of the houses, and at length knocked at the door of one of them.
An elderly woman, dressed in a neat but very homely garb, responded to the summons.
“Does Mrs. Smith live here, ma’am?” demanded the individual in black.
“My name’s Smith, sir,” answered the widow.
“Very good, ma’am. I’ll have a little conversation with you, if you please,”—and the stranger stepped into the passage.
Mrs. Smith conducted him into her little parlour, and inquired his business.
“Mine, ma’am,” was the answer, “is a professional visit—entirely a professional visit, ma’am. Alas! ma’am,” continued the stranger, casting his eyes upwards in a most dolorous manner, and taking a dirty white handkerchief from his pocket,—“alas ma’am, I understand you have had a sad loss here?”
“A lodger of mine, sir, is dead,” said Mrs. Smith, somewhat surprised at the display of sorrow which she now beheld, and very naturally expecting that her visitor would prove to be a relation of the deceased.
“Ah! ma’am, we’re all mortal!” exclaimed the stranger, with a mournful shake of the head, and a truly pitiful turning up of the whites of his eyes, “we’re all mortal, ma’am; and howsomever high and mighty we may be in this life, the grave at last must have our carkisses!”
“Very true, sir,” said the good woman, putting the corner of her apron to her eyes; for the reflection of the stranger called to her mind the loss she had experienced in the deceased Mr. Smith.
“Alas! it’s too true, ma’am,” continued the stranger, applying his handkerchief to his face, to suppress, as the widow thought, a sob: “but it is to be hoped, ma’am, that your lodger has gone to a better speer, where there’s no cares to wex him—and no rent to pay!”
“I hope so too, most sincerely, sir,” said Mrs. Smith, wondering when the gentleman would announce the precise terms of relationship in which he stood to the deceased. “But, might I inquire—”
“Yes, ma’am, you may inquire anything you choose,” said the stranger, with another solemn shake of his head—in consequence of which a great deal of wet was thrown over Mrs. Smith’s furniture; “for I know you by name, Mrs. Smith—I know you well by reputation—as a respectable, kind-hearted, and pious widder; and I feel conwinced that your treatment to the poor lamented deceased—” here the stranger shook his head again, and groaned audibly—“was everything that it ought to be in this blessed land of Christian comfort!”
Mrs. Smith now began to suspect that she was honoured with the visit of a devout minister of some particular sect to which the deceased had probably belonged. But before she had time to mention her supposition, the stranger resumed his highly edifying discourse.
“My dear madam,” he said, turning up his eyes, “the presence of death in this house—this wery house—ought to make us mindful of the uncertain leasehold of our own lives; it ought to make us prayerful and church-loving. But madam—my dear madam,” continued the stranger, apparently on the point of bursting out into a perfect agony of grief, “there are attentions to be paid to the body as well as cares to entertain for the soul; and the least we can do is to show a feeling of weneration for our deceased friends by consigning them in a decent manner to the grave.”
“On that point, sir,” said Mrs. Smith, “I think as you do; and I s’pose you’re come to superintend the funeral. If so, I am sure I am very thankful, for it’s a great tax on a poor lone body like me to have such a undertaking to attend to.”
“I’ll undertake the undertaking—out of respect to the poor dear deceased, ma’am,” observed the stranger, in a tone of deep solemnity. “And now, ma’am,” he continued, rising, “I must request you to command those feelings which is so nat’ral under such circumstances, and show me into the room where the blessed departed lays.”
Mrs. Smith, thinking within herself that the visitor must have some legitimate authority for his present proceeding, and presuming that he would condescend to impart to her the nature of that authority ere he took his leave, conducted him with very little hesitation to the room where the deceased lay stretched upon the bed.
The corpse was covered with a clean white sheet; for every thing, though excessively homely, was still neat and decent in the widow’s dwelling.
“I see, ma’am,” said the stranger, advancing solemnly up to the bed, and drawing the sheet away from the corpse,—“I see that you know how to pay proper respect to the last remnants of mortality. Ah! ma’am, it’s all wanity and wexation of spirit!”
With these words the extraordinary stranger drew a rule gravely from his pocket, and proceeded to measure the corpse, saying at the same time, “Ah! my dear madam, heaven will reward you for all your goodness towards our dear deceased friend!”
“Was he a friend of yours, then, sir?” demanded the widow, somewhat astounded at the process of measurement which was now going on before her eyes.
“Are we not all friends and brethren, ma’am?” said the stranger: “are we not all Christian friends and Christian brethren? Yes, ma’am, we are—we must be.”
“May I ask, sir, why—”
“Yes, ma’am, ask any thing—I implore you to ask any thing. I am so overcome by the idea of your goodness towards the blessed defunct, and by the sense of the dooty which my profession—”
“What profession, sir?” asked Mrs. Smith, point-blank.
“Ah! my dear madam,” answered the stranger, with a shake of the head more solemn than any he had yet delivered himself of, “I exercise the profession of undertaker.”
“Undertaker!” ejaculated the widow, a light breaking in upon her as she thought of the systematic measurement of the body.
“Undertaker and furnisher of funerals, ma’am, on the most genteel and economic principles.”
“Well—I raly took you for a minister,” said Mrs. Smith, somewhat disappointed.
“Excellent woman! your goodness flatters me,” ejaculated the undertaker. “But here is my card, ma’am—Edward Banks, you perceive—Globe Lane. Ah! my dear madam, I knew your dear deceased husband well! Often and oft have we chanted the same hymn together in the parish church; and often have we drunk together out of the same pewter at the Spotted Dog.”
Mournful, indeed, was the shake of the head that accompanied this latter assurance; and the undertaker once more had recourse to his dingy pocket-handkerchief.
The widow used the corner of her apron.
Mr. Banks saw the advantage he had gained, and hastened to clench the object of his visit.
“Yes, my dear madam, no man respected your dear husband more than me: in fact, I wenerated that man. Poor dear Thomas Smith—”
“Matthew, sir,” said the widow mildly.
“Ah! so it was, ma’am—Matthew Smith! Good fellow—charming companion—excellent man—gone, gone—never to come back no more!”
And Mr. Banks sobbed audibly.
“Well,” observed the widow, wiping her eyes, “it’s wery strange that poor dear Mat never should have mentioned your name to me, considering you was so intimate.”
“Our friendship, ma’am, was a solemn compact—too solemn t
o be made a matter of idle conversation. But since I have made myself known to you, my dear madam, do, pray, let me take this unpleasant business off your hands, and conduct the funeral of your lamented lodger.”
“Well, sir,” said the widow, after a moment’s reflection, “since you are in the undertaking line, and as you’ve called so polite and all, I shall be wery much obleeged—”
“Say no more, my dear Mrs. Smith,” exclaimed Mr. Banks. “I will do the thing respectable for you—and wery moderate charges. You need not bother yourself about it in any way. We will bury the dear departed in one of the Globe Lane grounds and I will even provide the clergyman.”
“Do you know a good—pious—sincere minister that you can recommend, Mr. Banks?” asked the widow.
“I do, ma’am—a godly, dewout, prayerful man—meek and humble,” answered the undertaker.
“I rather want a little advice in one way—quite private,” continued Mrs. Smith; “and I should take it as a favour if your friend the minister would just step round—or shall I call upon him?”
“No, Mrs. Smith—certainly not. He shall pay his respects to you. Gentlemen always waits upon ladies,” added Mr. Banks.
Though he uttered a compliment, he did not smile; but Mrs. Smith was flattered; and, leading the way down stairs to her little parlour, she invited Mr. Banks to take “a thimble-full of something short to keep out the damp that cold morning.”
Mr. Banks accepted the civility; and the costs of the funeral were duly settled. The undertaker engaged to inter the deceased lodger for five pounds, and pay all expenses. At length he took his leave; and Mrs. Smith felt quite relieved from any anxiety respecting the obsequies of the deceased.
From Mrs. Smith’s humble abode, the respectable Mr. Banks proceeded to the dwelling of the Resurrection Man, who had just returned from a visit to the surgeon that had attended upon the deceased. The success of this visit will be related hereafter; for the present, let us hasten to inform our readers that Mr. Banks acquainted his friend Mr. Tidkins with every particular respecting his call upon the widow in Smart Street.
CHAPTER CII.
THE REVEREND VISITOR.
WHEN Mr. Banks had taken his leave of the widow in Smart Street, Globe Town, the latter seated herself in her little parlour to reflect upon what had passed during the interview.
“Well,” she said to herself, “that certainly is a very singular man. To have knowed my husband so well, and for me never to have knowed him! P’raps, after all, my poor Mat was fond of the public-house, and didn’t like to speak of the acquaintances he met there. That accounts for his never mentioning Mr. Banks’s name. But for a man like Mr. Banks to come here whimpering and crying over a corpse, which he never see living, shows a excellent heart. Mr. Banks must be a wery amiable man. And yet I always heerd say that butchers and undertakers was the most unfeelingest of men. They never let butchers set on juries; but I’m sure if undertakers is so milk-hearted, they may set on juries, or up in pulpits, or any where else, for my part. Mr. Banks is a wery respectable man—and a wery pious one too. I’m sure I thought he was going to sing a hymn—’specially after the dodger of gin he took. The minister that he said he’d send to me must be a holy man: I shall put confidence in him—and foller his advice.”
A tap at the parlour door interrupted Mrs. Smith’s reverie; and the Buffer’s wife entered the room.
“How do you do this morning, ma’am?” said Moll Wicks. “I thought I heerd that you had company just now?”
“Only Mr. Banks, the undertaker, Mrs. Wicks.”
“Oh! Mr. Banks, was it?” ejaculated the Buffer’s wife, who now began to comprehend a part of the Resurrection Man’s plan: “and a highly respectable individual he is too.”
“Do you know any thing of him, Mrs. Wicks?”
“Certainly I do, ma’am. He buried my grandfather and grandmother, my great uncle and my lame aunt, and never took no more than expenses out of pocket,” answered Moll—although be it well remembered, she had never seen nor heard of Mr. Banks before the preceding evening.
“Ah! well—I thought I couldn’t be wrong,” observed the widow, extremely satisfied with this information.
“And so I suppose, ma’am, you’ve made the arrangements with him for the funeral?”
“Just so,” responded Mrs. Smith; “and in the course of the day I expect a wery pious minister of Mr. Banks’s acquaintance.”
Scarcely were these words uttered, when a modest double knock at the front door was heard—a summons which Mrs. Wicks volunteered to answer.
The moment she opened the door, an ejaculation of surprise was about to issue from her tongue; but the individual whom she saw upon the threshold put his finger to his lips to impose silence.
The Buffer’s wife responded with a significant nod, and introduced the visitor into the widow’s parlour.
Moll Wicks then withdrew to her own room.
Meantime the visitor stood in the presence of Mrs. Smith, who beheld before her a short man, with a pale face, dark piercing eyes, shaggy brows, and long straggling black hair. He was dressed in a respectable suit of mourning, and wore a clean white cravat.
“Pardon me, ma’am, if I intrude,” said the visitor; “but my friend Mr. Banks—”
“Oh! sir, you are quite welcome,” ejaculated the widow. “Pray sit down, sir. I presume you are the reverend minister—”
“I am a humble vessel of the Lord,” answered the visitor, casting down his eyes with great meekness: “and I am come to see in what way I can be useful to a respectable widow of whom my friend, the excellent Mr. Banks, has spoken so very highly.”
“The truth is, reverend sir,” said the widow, sinking her voice, and drawing her chair closer up to her sanctified visitor, “I want some good advice how to act in a wery partickler matter.”
“It is my business to give good advice,” was the reply.
“I thought so, reverend sir; and if Mat had been alive, I should have told him that I thought so. Howsomever, this is what I want to know about. An old gentleman dies yesterday morning in my house; and he leaves a little money—thirty or forty pounds, or so—behind him. He always paid his way with me; and so I don’t start no claim to a farthing of it. He has no name—no friends—no relations—no nothing: now the question is, sir, what am I to do with this here money that he’s left behind him?”
“You are a very honest woman, Mrs. Smith,” answered the reverend gentleman; “and you conduct yourself in a most creditable way in this respect. Many people would have put the money into their own pockets.”
“And that’s just what a female lodger of mine wanted me to do, reverend sir,” exclaimed the landlady. “But I know myself better. Dead man’s money never did no one no good unless it was properly left, as the saying is. Mrs. Wicks would have had me keep it all quiet; and I must say that I was surprised at the perposal. But, between you and me, sir, I don’t think overmuch of my lodgers, although they do pay their rent pretty reg’lar. The man doesn’t seem to have any work or employment; and yet they live on the best—biled beef one day, steaks the next, bacon and greens the next—and so on. I know that I can’t do it on nothing. And then they have their ale at dinner, and their gin of an evening. For my part I can’t understand it. The man keeps late hours too; and the woman swears like a trooper when she’s got a drop too much. But then, as I said, they pays their way; and a lone widder like me doesn’t dare ask no questions.”
“Of course not,” said the reverend gentleman. “I think you stated that the name of the lodgers you allude to is Wicks?”
“Yes, sir—Wicks.”
“I know them—by reputation only. They have an annuity of eighty pounds a-year, and are very respectable people. Their only fault is that they are rather fond of company—and that, perhaps, makes them stay out late now and then.”
“Well, sir, if a pious gentleman like you thinks well on them, it isn’t for a poor ignorant creatur’ like me to say black’s the white of their eye. They pays their way; and that’s all I ought to bother myself about. But, as I was a-saying, the old gentleman which lodged with me dies and leaves some money behind him. There ain’t kith or kin to claim it. Now what had I better do with it?”
“The ecclesiastical law—”
“Sir?”
“The law of Doctors’ Commons, I mean, is very particular on this head,” said the reverend visitor. “There are only two things to do.”
“And which be they, sir?” asked the widow.
“Either to go and put the money into the Chancery Court, or to bury it in the coffin along with the deceased.”
“And suppose I put it into the Chancery Court, sir?”
“Then no one will ever get it out again—that’s all.”
“But if some relation comes for’ard?”
“Then he’ll just have to pay two pounds costs for every pound he draws out.”
“Lack-a-daisy me!” ejaculated the widow. “I raly think it would be best to bury the money in the poor old gentleman’s coffin.”
“I am sure it would be,” said the reverend adviser; “and although you would be giving up a treasure in this life, you would be laying up for yourself a treasure in heaven.”
“Ah! well-a-day, sir—we must all think of that. I shall foller your advice, and bury the money with the poor man in his coffin.”
“Without mentioning the business to a soul except Mr. Banks,” said the saintly man, in an impressive tone.
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 106
