In this trade Mr Hale, junior, did very well for some time. He enlarged his premises, and put in his window the striking sign of a coffin accompanied by the words, “Simplicity, Despatch, Economy and Reform,” the last of which abstractions had, until recent years, seemed peculiarly congenial to the political spirit of the neighbourhood.
Mr Burden had first come to know him in connection with the death of a young man, a neighbour, of whom he had been in a sort of way the guardian; he had later entrusted him with the mortal remains of Mrs Burden.
But, shortly after that memorable date, misfortune overtook the hitherto prosperous purveyor. The increased facility of communication caused many of his clients to turn for the last rites to larger firms in the centre of London, and even to entrust their lifeless clay to the limited companies which had begun to compete with the smaller capitalists of the profession. The practice of cremation also, increasing somewhat in favour with the middle classes, had cut into his profits; and two years of exceptional local health, during which his permanent expenses could not be reduced, had eaten up his little reserve. More than once he had undertaken a few jobs of cabinet work for Mr Burden, who was ever ready to help those around him; but this kind of job had to be done under the rose, as being beneath the dignity, and, indeed, opposed to the rules, of the Society to which Mr Hale belonged.
In the last few weeks things had become desperate with him; and, to tell the truth, he was approaching Mr Burden upon this occasion for the loan of £10.
I have no space to detail the conversation which passed between the two, and I can only plead my old friend’s great weakness, the recent destruction of his whole stamina and nerve, as an excuse for his acceding to Mr Hale’s request. It was against all his principles, as it must be against those of every sober reader of these lines, to lend money.
He lent it because he was in that mood of mixed softness, abandonment, and sadness, which so often precedes a catastrophe.
They parted outside the station, Mr Hale with overwhelming thanks and repeated promises of repayment, Mr Burden gazing at him as though at some memory of the past, then saying:
“Good-bye, Mr Hale,” and he said it with as much affection and solemnity as though he were bidding farewell for ever to one of his oldest friends.
Mr Hale smiled in a terrified manner and departed; Mr Burden went down the stairs, took his train, and sat silent all the way into town. For the first time in I know not how many years he held no newspaper in his hands.
When he came to the City he went directly to Leadenhall Street, and, purposely passing the little familiar archway which led to his friend’s private room, went in at last by the great public entrance of Mr Abbott’s offices.