III
BUT to return to the Undertaker, the real hero of our tale. We left him in his studio poring over the epitaph of William Henry Weld, while Departed rehearsed his dumb and silent turn for eternity in the corner's lurking shadow. At last the Undertaker roused himself from his reveries.
“I must to bed!” he said; “it waxeth late, and tomorrow I propose for her in wedlock.”
Next morning the Undertaker arose refreshed. He had smote his ear for full eight hours. He felt fit to propose for his life, let alone the delicate duke of Arabella Weld.
The Undertaker's adored one was to come at noon. She wanted to size up Departed prior to the obsequies.
Although it was but 9 o'clock, the Undertaker had to get a curve on himself to keep his date with Arabella Weld at midday. He had an invalid to measure for a coffin—it was a riveted cinch the party would die—and then there was a corpse to shave in the next block. These duties were giving him the crowd.
But our hero made it; played every inning without an error, and was organised for Arabella Weld when she arrived.
As they stood together—Arabella and the man who, all unknown to her, loved her so madly—looking down at Deceased, she could not repress her admiration.
“On d' dead! I never saw Willie look so well,” she said. “He's very much improved. You must have taken a woild of pains wit' Willie.”
The Undertaker was silent.
Struck by this, Arabella Weld turned her full lustrous lamps on the Undertaker and saw it all. It was for her, the loving heart beside her had toiled over Deceased like an artist over a picture.
Swift is Love, and the Undertaker, quivering with his great passion, twigged in an instant that Arabella was onto him. A vast joy swept his heart like a torrent.
“I wanted him to make a hit for your sake,” he whispered, stealing his arm about her.
Arabella softly put his arm away.
“Not now,” she sighed. “It would be too soon a play. We must wait until we've got Willie off our hands—we must wait a year.”
“Wait a year!” and the pain of it bent the Undertaker like a willow. “Wait a year, dearest! Now, what's d' fun of that? You must take me for a farmer!” and his tones showed that the Undertaker was hurt.
“But in Herkimer County they wait a year,” faltered Arabella, wistfully.
“Sure! in Herkimer!” consented the Undertaker; “but that's Up-the-state. A week in Harlem is equal to a year in Herkimer. Let it be a week, love!”
“This isn't a game for Willie's life insurance?” and great crystals of pain and doubt swam in Arabella's glorious eyes.
“Oh, me love!” cried the Undertaker, fondly, yet desperately, “plant d' policy wit' Willie! Send it back to d' company if youse doubts me, an' tell 'em to call d' whole bluff a draw.”
The bit of paper, containing the epitaph, fluttered to the floor from her nerveless mits, her beautiful head sank on the broad shoulder of the Undertaker, and her tears flowed unrestrained.