Mr. David Arden, therefore, had made a call at the office of Paller, Crapely, Plumes, and Co., eminent undertakers in the most gentleman-like, and, indeed, aristocratic line of business, with immense resources at command, and who would undertake to bury a duke, with all the necessary draperies, properties, and dramatis personæ, if required, before his grace was cold in his bed.
A little dialogue occurred here, which highly interested Uncle David. A stout gentleman, with a muddy and melancholy countenance, and a sad suavity of manner, and in the perennial mourning that belongs to gentlemen of his doleful profession, presents himself to David Arden, to receive his instructions respecting the deceased baronet's obsequies. The top of his head is bald, his face is furrowed and baggy; he looks fully sixty-five, and he announces himself as the junior partner, Plumes by name.
Having made his suggestions and his notes, and taken his order for a strictly private funeral in the neighbourhood of London, Mr. Plumes thoughtfully observes that he remembers the name well, having been similarly employed for another member of the same family.
“Ah! How was that? How long ago?” asked Mr. Arden.
“About twenty years, Sir.”
“And where was that funeral?”
“The same place, Sir, Mortlake.”
“Yes, I know that was——?”
“It was Mr. 'Enry, or rayther 'Arry Harden. We 'ad to take back the plate, Sir, and change 'Enry to 'Arry—'Arry being the name he was baptised by. There was a hinquest connected with that horder.”
“So there was, Mr. Plumes,” said Uncle David with awakened interest, for that gentleman spoke as if he had something more to say on the subject.