THE BURIAL OF DUNDEE.
"Dundee is dead," said my wife, returning from her morning visit to the kitchen.
"I am very sorry to hear it," I replied, laying down the newspaper on the breakfast-table, at which I still lingered; and indeed I was sorry. Dundee had been our household cat from the earliest days of our married life, from the time when he was a tiny kitten the colour of marmalade, which had earned him his name.
"Cook is very much upset," my wife continued.
"Her distress does her credit," I answered.
"She talks of leaving."
I must confess with shame that a pang acuter than the first went through me at the news, for Cook was one of those rare artists who understands the value of surprise and never rides success to death.
"Ask her to reconsider her decision," I said.
"I have," said my wife, "and she remained immovable."
"Perhaps when the first shock has worn off?"
"There is just a chance."
"Yes, I am sure you can persuade her," I concluded, preparing to leave for my office.
"Before you go," interrupted my wife, "what are we going to do about the burial?"
"How does one usually dispose of dead cats?" I asked. "I thought the dustman—"
"Out of the question."
"I know it is forbidden by the by-laws of the Corporation, but a shilling——"
"How stupid you are! If anything were to decide Cook to go it would be handing over Dundee's remains to the dustman. You know how particular Cook is about funerals."
I knew indeed. The rate of mortality among her friends and relations was abnormally high, and on account, as I suspect, of her skill in cookery she was in frequent demand as a mourner. By continual attendance she had cultivated a nice sense of what was fitting on these occasions and posed as an authority on the subject.
"Very well, then, let's have him buried," I said.
"Where?"
"In our garden."
"Who by?"
"Palmer or Emily."
Palmer and Emily are respectively the parlour- and house-maid.
"Both would say it was not the work for which they were engaged. They would leave at the same time as Cook, if I asked them."
"Who else can we get?" I asked.
"Yourself," my wife made answer.
"Me? But I can't be seen by all the street burying a cat." I should explain that our only garden is in front of the house.
"If you wait till it is dark you needn't be afraid of anyone seeing you," protested my wife.
"And run the risk of being detected by some suspicious policeman. No, thank you."
"Then if you won't do it yourself you must find someone who will. It is our last hope of persuading Cook to stay."
"By heaven!" I cried, looking at my watch, I am a quarter-of-an-hour late. I must run."
This was my customary device to evade the embarrassing dilemmas which my wife not infrequently thrust upon me at this hour. So for the moment I escaped. All day in the office I was fully occupied. From time to time the memory of Dundee lying stark in the basement obtruded itself upon my thoughts, but I dismissed the vision as one does a problem one has not the courage to face.
The problem remained unsolved when I stepped out of the train on my return from the City. To gain time for reflection I resolved to make a détour. As I struck into an unfamiliar side street, I looked up, and there in front of me stood an undertaker's shop.
The inspiration! I entered. From the back premises advanced to meet me the undertaker, with a visage tentatively wobegone, not yet knowing whether I was widower, orphan, businesslike executor or merely the busybody family friend. I unfolded my difficulty. Beneath the outer crust of professional melancholy there evidently seethed within the undertaker a lava of joviality.
"Certainly, Sir, certainly," he said. "It is not perhaps strictly in my line, but one of my assistants will be delighted to earn an extra shilling or so by obliging you. What name and address?"
I joyfully gave both and made my way home.
Midway through dinner came a ring at the front-door bell. Palmer interrupted her service to answer, and returned to me with a card on a salver.
"A gentleman to see you, Sir," she announced.
"How strange, at this hour! Who can it be?" asked my wife.
"The gentleman to bury Dundee," I explained in a lowered voice, as I passed the visiting-card, deeply edged with black, across the table to her.
Next morning my wife was able to announce that Cook had consented to stay. The burial of Dundee by a real undertaker had gratified her sense of the correct. I departed to the City filled with self-complacency.
For a month I dwelt in this fool's paradise. Then one evening my wife gently broke the news.
"I have something serious to tell you. Cook has given notice."
"Who is dead now?" I asked.
"No one. She is engaged to be married."
"Married?"
"Yes, to the young undertaker."
"What young undertaker?"
"The one who buried Dundee."
It was too true. At supper, after the inhumation, a mutual esteem had sprung up that rapidly ripened into love. The enterprising young journeyman, so enamoured of his calling that he consented to inter dumb creatures in his leisure time, had evidently discerned in Cook, with her wealth of funeral lore, a helpmeet worthy of himself; while Cook on her side, conquered by his diligence and discretion, considered she had secured a respectable settlement for life, with the prospect of obsequies of the highest class for herself.
