The earl and Washington started on the sorrowful errand, talking as
they walked.
“And as _usual!_”
“What, Colonel?”
“Seven of them in that hotel. Actresses. And all burnt out, of course.”
“Any of them burnt _up?_”
“Oh, no they escaped; they always do; but there’s never a one of them
that knows enough to fetch out her jewelry with her.”
“That’s strange.”
“Strange—it’s the most unaccountable thing in the world. Experience
teaches them nothing; they can’t seem to learn anything except out of a
book. In some cases there’s manifestly a fatality about it. For
instance, take What’s-her-name, that plays those sensational thunder
and lightning parts. She’s got a perfectly immense reputation—draws
like a dog-fight—and it all came from getting burnt out in hotels.”
“Why, how could that give her a reputation as an actress?”
“It didn’t—it only made her name familiar. People want to see her play
because her name is familiar, but they don’t know what made it
familiar, because they don’t remember. First, she was at the bottom of
the ladder, and absolutely obscure—wages thirteen dollars a week and
find her own pads.”
“Pads?”
“Yes—things to fat up her spindles with so as to be plump and
attractive. Well, she got burnt out in a hotel and lost $30,000 worth
of diamonds.”
“She? Where’d she get them?”
“Goodness knows—given to her, no doubt, by spoony young flats and sappy
old bald-heads in the front row. All the papers were full of it. She
struck for higher pay and got it. Well, she got burnt out again and
lost all her diamonds, and it gave her such a lift that she went
starring.”
“Well, if hotel fires are all she’s got to depend on to keep up her
name, it’s a pretty precarious kind of a reputation I should think.”
“Not with her. No, anything but that. Because she’s so lucky; born
lucky, I reckon. Every time there’s a hotel fire she’s in it. She’s
always there—and if she can’t be there herself, her diamonds are. Now
you can’t make anything out of that but just sheer luck.”
“I never heard of such a thing. She must have lost quarts of diamonds.”
“Quarts, she’s lost bushels of them. It’s got so that the hotels are
superstitious about her. They won’t let her in. They think there will
be a fire; and besides, if she’s there it cancels the insurance. She’s
been waning a little lately, but this fire will set her up. She lost
$60,000 worth last night.”
“I think she’s a fool. If I had $60,000 worth of diamonds I wouldn’t
trust them in a hotel.”
“I wouldn’t either; but you can’t teach an actress that. This one’s
been burnt out thirty-five times. And yet if there’s a hotel fire in
San Francisco to-night she’s got to bleed again, you mark my words.
Perfect ass; they say she’s got diamonds in every hotel in the
country.”
When they arrived at the scene of the fire the poor old earl took one
glimpse at the melancholy morgue and turned away his face overcome by
the spectacle. He said:
“It is too true, Hawkins—recognition is impossible, not one of the five
could be identified by its nearest friend. You make the selection, I
can’t bear it.”
“Which one had I better—”
“Oh, take any of them. Pick out the best one.”
However, the officers assured the earl—for they knew him, everybody in
Washington knew him—that the position in which these bodies were found
made it impossible that any one of them could be that of his noble
young kinsman. They pointed out the spot where, if the newspaper
account was correct, he must have sunk down to destruction; and at a
wide distance from this spot they showed him where the young man must
have gone down in case he was suffocated in his room; and they showed
still a third place, quite remote, where he might possibly have found
his death if perchance he tried to escape by the side exit toward the
rear. The old Colonel brushed away a tear and said to Hawkins:
“As it turns out there was something prophetic in my fears. Yes, it’s a
matter of ashes. Will you kindly step to a grocery and fetch a couple
more baskets?”
Reverently they got a basket of ashes from each of those now hallowed
spots, and carried them home to consult as to the best manner of
forwarding them to England, and also to give them an opportunity to
“lie in state,”—a mark of respect which the colonel deemed obligatory,
considering the high rank of the deceased.
They set the baskets on the table in what was formerly the library,
drawing-room and workshop—now the Hall of Audience—and went up stairs
to the lumber room to see if they could find a British flag to use as a
part of the outfit proper to the lying in state. A moment later, Lady
Rossmore came in from the street and caught sight of the baskets just
as old Jinny crossed her field of vision. She quite lost her patience
and said:
“Well, what will you do next? What in the world possessed you to
clutter up the parlor table with these baskets of ashes?”
“Ashes?” And she came to look. She put up her hands in pathetic
astonishment. “Well, I _never_ see de like!”
“Didn’t you do it?”
“Who, me? Clah to goodness it’s de fust time I’ve sot eyes on ’em, Miss
Polly. Dat’s Dan’l. Dat ole moke is losin’ his mine.”
p088.jpg (16K)
But it wasn’t Dan’l, for he was called, and denied it.
“Dey ain’t no way to ’splain dat. Wen hit’s one er dese-yer common
’currences, a body kin reckon maybe de cat—”
“Oh!” and a shudder shook Lady Rossmore to her foundations. “I see it
all. Keep away from them—they’re _his_.”
“_His_, m’ lady?”
“Yes—your young Marse Sellers from England that’s burnt up.”
She was alone with the ashes—alone before she could take half a breath.
Then she went after Mulberry Sellers, purposing to make short work of
his program, whatever it might be; “for,” said she, “when his
sentimentals are up, he’s a numskull, and there’s no knowing what
extravagance he’ll contrive, if you let him alone.” She found him. He
had found the flag and was bringing it. When she heard that his idea
was to have the remains “lie in state, and invite the government and
the public,” she broke it up. She said:
“Your intentions are all right—they always are—you want to do honour to
the remains, and surely nobody can find any fault with that, for he was
your kin; but you are going the wrong way about it, and you will see it
yourself if you stop and think. You can’t file around a basket of ashes
trying to look sorry for it and make a sight that is really solemn,
because the solemner it is, the more it isn’t—anybody can see that. It
would be so with one basket; it would be three times so with three.
Well, it stands to reason that if it wouldn’t be solemn with one
mourner, it wouldn’t be with a procession—and there would be five
thousand people here. I don’t know but it would be pretty near
ridiculous; I think it would. No, Mulberry, they can’t lie in state—it
would be a mistake. Give that up and think of something else.”
So he gave it up; and not reluctantly, when he had thought it over and
realized how right her instinct was. He concluded to merely sit up with
the remains just himself and Hawkins. Even this seemed a doubtful
attention, to his wife, but she offered no objection, for it was plain
that he had a quite honest and simple-hearted desire to do the friendly
and honourable thing by these forlorn poor relics which could command
no hospitality in this far off land of strangers but his. He draped the
flag about the baskets, put some crape on the door-knob, and said with
satisfaction:
“There—he is as comfortable, now, as we can make him in the
circumstances. Except—yes, we must strain a point there—one must do as
one would wish to be done by—he must have it.”
“Have what, dear?”
“Hatchment.”
The wife felt that the house-front was standing about all it could well
stand, in that way; the prospect of another stunning decoration of that
nature distressed her, and she wished the thing had not occurred to
him. She said, hesitatingly:
“But I thought such an honour as that wasn’t allowed to any but very
_very_ near relations, who—”
“Right, you are quite right, my lady, perfectly right; but there aren’t
any nearer relatives than relatives by usurpation. We cannot avoid it;
we are slaves of aristocratic custom and must submit.”
The hatchments were unnecessarily generous, each being as large as a
blanket, and they were unnecessarily volcanic, too, as to variety and
violence of color, but they pleased the earl’s barbaric eye, and they
satisfied his taste for symmetry and completeness, too, for they left
no waste room to speak of on the house-front.
Lady Rossmore and her daughter assisted at the sitting-up till near
midnight, and helped the gentlemen to consider what ought to be done
next with the remains. Rossmore thought they ought to be sent home with
a committee and resolutions,—at once. But the wife was doubtful. She
said:
“Would you send all of the baskets?”
“Oh, yes, all.”
“All at once?”
“To his father? Oh, no—by no means. Think of the shock. No—one at a
time; break it to him by degrees.”
“Would _that_ have that effect, father?”
“Yes, my daughter. Remember, you are young and elastic, but he is old.
To send him the whole at once might well be more than he could bear.
But mitigated—one basket at a time, with restful intervals between, he
would be used to it by the time he got all of him. And sending him in
three ships is safer anyway. On account of wrecks and storms.”
“I don’t like the idea, father. If I were his father it would be
dreadful to have him coming in that—in that—”
“On the installment plan,” suggested Hawkins, gravely, and proud of
being able to help.
“Yes—dreadful to have him coming in that incoherent way. There would be
the strain of suspense upon me all the time. To have so depressing a
thing as a funeral impending, delayed, waiting, unaccomplished—”
“Oh, no, my child,” said the earl reassuringly, “there would be nothing
of that kind; so old a gentleman could not endure a long-drawn suspense
like that. There will be three funerals.”
Lady Rossmore looked up surprised, and said:
“How is _that_ going to make it easier for him? It’s a total mistake,
to my mind. He ought to be buried all at once; I’m sure of it.”
“I should think so, too,” said Hawkins.
“And certainly _I_ should,” said the daughter.
“You are all wrong,” said the earl. “You will see it yourselves, if you
think. Only one of these baskets has got him in it.”
“Very well, then,” said Lady Rossmore, “the thing is perfectly
simple—bury _that_ one.”
“Certainly,” said Lady Gwendolen.
“But it is _not_ simple,” said the earl, “because we do not know which
basket he is in. We know he is in _one_ of them, but that is all we
_do_ know. You see now, I reckon, that I was right; it takes three
funerals, there is no other way.”
“And three graves and three monuments and three inscriptions?” asked
the daughter.
“Well—yes—to do it right. That is what I should do.”
“It could not be done so, father. Each of the inscriptions would give
the same name and the same facts and say he was under each and all of
these monuments, and that would not answer at all.”
The earl nestled uncomfortably in his chair.
“No,” he said, “that _is_ an objection. That is a serious objection. I
see no way out.”
There was a general silence for a while. Then Hawkins said:
“It seems to me that if we mixed the three ramifications together—”
The earl grasped him by the hand and shook it gratefully.
“It solves the whole problem,” he said. “One ship, one funeral, one
grave, one monument—it is admirably conceived. It does you honor, Major
Hawkins, it has relieved me of a most painful embarrassment and
distress, and it will save that poor stricken old father much
suffering. Yes, he shall go over in one basket.”
“When?” asked the wife.
“To-morrow-immediately, of course.”
“I would wait, Mulberry.”
“Wait? Why?”
“_You_ don’t want to break that childless old man’s heart.”
“God knows I don’t!”
“Then wait till he sends for his son’s remains. If you do that, you
will never have to give him the last and sharpest pain a parent can
know—I mean, the _certainty_ that his son is dead. For he will never
send.”
“Why won’t he?”
“Because to send—and find out the truth—would rob him of the one
precious thing left him, the _uncertainty_, the dim hope that maybe,
after all, his boy escaped, and he will see him again some day.”
“Why Polly, he’ll know by the _papers_ that he was burnt up.”
“He won’t let himself _believe_ the papers; he’ll argue against
anything and everything that proves his son is dead; and he will keep
that up and live on it, and on nothing else till he dies. But if the
_remains_ should actually come, and be put before that poor old
dim-hoping soul—”
“Oh, my God, they never shall! Polly, you’ve saved me from a crime, and
I’ll bless you for it always. _Now_ we know what to do. We’ll place
them reverently away, and he shall never know.”