Albert Langly found a new and absorbing interest in life. This interest
was friendship, the pleasures of which the organist had never before
experienced during his lonely and studious existence. He became a
constant visitor at Braunt’s rooms and began teaching Jessie the
rudiments of music, finding her a willing and apt pupil as well as a
very silent one. Her gaunt face and large sorrowful eyes haunted him
wherever he went, while she looked upon him with an awe such as she
would have bestowed upon a being from another world; which perhaps
he was, for he had certainly little relationship with this eager,
money-seeking planet. Joe Braunt was quite content to sit in his
armchair and smoke. However small the money is for the housekeeping, a
workingman will generally contrive to provide himself with tobacco.
As often as not, Braunt was absent when his daughter had her
music lesson, for Mrs. Grundy has little to say about the domestic
arrangements of the extreme poor. The entire absence of all world-wisdom
in the young man would have made it difficult for any one to explain to
him why two people who loved music should not be together as often as
opportunity offered, had there been any one who took interest enough
in him or in her to attempt such an explanation. The girl, who had
even more than her father’s worship of harmony, was fascinated by the
organist’s marvellous skill upon the instrument to which he had devoted
his life, before her solemn eyes had lured his musical soul into their
mystic influence. The two were lovers without either of them suspecting
it.
Once Langly persuaded Braunt and his daughter to go to the empty church
with him and hear the grand organ. The workman and the girl sat together
in the wilderness of vacant pews, and listened entranced while the
sombre rhythm of the _Dead March_ filled the deserted edifice. Langly
played one selection after another, for the love of the music and the
love of his audience. It was a concert such as the mad king of Bavaria
might have hearkened to in lonely state, but heard now by a man without
a penny in his pocket and hardly a crust to eat in his squalid rooms.
Whether the deft fingers of the Bavarian player soothed for the moment
the demon that tortured the king, as the skill of David lulled the
disquiet of Saul, who can say?--but the enchanted touch of the solitary
organist on the ivory keys transported his listeners into a world where
hunger was unknown.
The stillness of the great church, untroubled by outside sounds; the
reverberation of harmony from the dim, lofty, vaulted roof; the awaking
of unexpected echoes lurking in dark corners, added to the solemnity of
the music,--gave the hearers and performer a sense of being cut adrift
from the babel beyond. The church for the time being was an oasis of
peace in a vast desert of turmoil.
Never again could Langly persuade Braunt to accompany him to the church.
Some memories are too precious to be molested, and he who risks the
repetition of an experience of perfect bliss prepares for himself a
possible disillusion.
“Nay, my lad,” he said, “we’ll let that rest. Some day, maybe, if I’m
ever like beginning to forget what I’ve heard, I’ll go back, but not
now. I would go stark music-mad if I often heard playing like yon; in
fact, I think sometimes I’m half daft already.”
But Jessie often accompanied the organist to the quiet church, neither
of them thinking of propriety or impropriety; and luckily they were
unseen by either the sexton or his wife, who would have raised a to-do
in the sacred interests of fitting and proper conduct. Sometimes the
girl sat with him in the organ loft, watching him as he played, but more
often she occupied one of the pews, the better to hear the instrument
in correct perspective. Jessie had inherited from her father the
taciturnity which characterized him, and her natural reticence was
augmented by her shyness. There was seldom any conversation between the
two in the church; each appeared abundantly satisfied by the fact that
the other was there. They might almost have been mute lovers, for any
use spoken language was to them.
Once, on coming down the narrow stair which led from the organ-loft,
Langly thought she had gone, so strangely deserted did the church seem.
Even in the daytime the gas had to be lighted when service was held; for
the windows were of stained glass, and the church was closely surrounded
by tall buildings. The atmosphere in that grim quarter was rarely
clear, and the interior of the church was always dim. Langly peered
short-sightedly through the gloom, but could not descry her. A feeling
of vague alarm took possession of him, until, hurrying up the aisle, he
saw she was in her place, with her head resting on the hymn-book board
of the pew, apparently asleep. He touched her gently on the shoulder,
and, when she slowly raised her head, saw that she had been silently
weeping.
“What is the matter, dear?” he whispered, bending over her.
“I feel afraid--afraid of something--I don’t know what. The church grew
black dark suddenly, and the music faded away. I thought I was sinking,
sinking down, and no one to save me.” She shuddered as she spoke, and
rose uncertainly to her feet, tottering slightly on stepping into the
aisle. “It was like a bad dream,” she added, with long-drawn, quivering
breath.
He slipped his arm about her waist, supporting her as they walked down
the aisle together.
“It’s the darkness of the church,” he said, “and perhaps the sadness of
the music. I’ll play something more cheerful next time you come. I play
too much in minor keys.”
At the door she asked him to stop a moment before going out. She dried
her eyes, but ineffectually; for, leaning against the stone wall, she
began to cry again in a despondent, helpless way that wrung the young
man’s heart within him.
“Jessie, Jessie,” he faltered, not knowing what to do or say.
“I feel ill and weak,” she sobbed. “I shall be all right again
presently.”
“Come, and we will have tea somewhere. That will cheer you up.”
They went away together, and he took her to a place where tea was to be
had. She sat there, dejectedly leaning her head on her hand, while the
refreshments were being brought; he opposite her, in melancholy silence.
She took some sips of the tea, but could not drink it, shaking her head
when he offered her the buttered bread.
“I must get home,” she said at last. “I can’t eat. I shall be better
there.”
They walked slowly to Rose Garden Court, and at No. 3 he helped her
up the sordid stair; she clinging breathlessly to the shaky railing at
every step or two, he thankful there was but one flight to climb. Braunt
sat in his armchair, an angry cloud on his brow. He was in his gruffest
mood, looking at them when they entered with surly displeasure, but
he said nothing. It was the evening after the men, with their small
majority, had resolved to continue the strike, and Braunt’s pipe was
cold. Not another scrap of tobacco could he gather, although he had
turned out every pocket in hope of finding a crumb or two. Jessie sank
into a chair, her white face turning appealingly, alternately from her
father to her friend, evidently fearing that something harsh might be
said, for she knew her father was rough-spoken when ill-pleased.
“Jessie is not well,” said the organist.
Braunt did not answer him, but crossed over to his daughter, and,
smoothing her hair, said more gently than she had expected:
“What’s wrong, lassie? Art hungry?”
“No, no,” murmured the girl, eagerly. “We had tea before we came in. I’m
not hungry.”
Langly, slow as he was to comprehend, saw that Braunt, at least, had
been without food, perhaps for long. He had several times offered
him money from his own scanty store, but it had always been refused,
sometimes in a manner not altogether friendly. The organist went quietly
out, leaving father and daughter alone together.
“Would you like me to get some one to come in--some woman?” said Braunt,
anxiously. “We don’t know our neighbours, but one of the women would
come in if she knew you were ill.”
The girl shook her head.
“I want none--naught but just to rest a little. It will all pass away
soon. I need but rest.”
The father returned to his chair, and they sat silent in the gathering
darkness.
Presently the door was pushed open, and Langly entered with parcels in
his arms. He placed a loaf on the table, with the rest of his burdens,
and put on the empty hearth the newspaper that held a pennyworth of
coals.
Braunt glared at him, speechless for a moment; then cried out,
indignantly:
“I’ll ha’ none o’ thy charity, my lad, d----d if I will!”
Before Langly could reply, Jessie rose tremblingly to her feet.
“Don’t, father, don’t!” she wailed; then, swaying as she attempted to
walk towards him, she fell suddenly in a heap on the floor.
Langly sprang forward, but Braunt brushed him roughly aside, and,
stooping over his daughter, lifted her slight form in his arms, speaking
soothingly and caressingly to her. He carried her to the bed, and placed
her lovingly upon it.
“Run!” he cried to Langly. “Run for a doctor. There’s one down Light
Street. There’s something main wrong here, I’m feared.”
The young man needed no second telling. The doctor objected to go to
Rose Garden Court; he had his own patients to attend to, he said. He
knew there was little to be got out of the court.
“I am organist at St. Martyrs,” replied the messenger, eagerly. “I will
see you paid.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” said the doctor. “Who generally attends people in
the court? There must be some one.”
“I don’t know,” answered Langly, “and I have no time to find out. The
case is urgent. Come!”
So the doctor, grumbling--for this kind of practice was out of his
line--went with him.
They found Braunt anxiously chafing the hands of the girl.
“You’ve been long about it,” he cried, as they entered.
Neither answered, and the doctor went quickly to the bed, with the
seemingly callous indifference of a man to whom such scenes are matters
of hourly routine. He placed his fingers upon her wrist, bent his ear
down to her breast, then put his hand on her smooth white brow.
“Has she been long ill?” he asked, sharply.
“Jessie was always weakly,” answered her father, “and latterly has not
been at all well, poor girl.”
“Who has attended her?”
“No one.”
“Oh, well, you know, I can’t grant a death certificate under these
circumstances. There will most likely be an inquest.”
“Good God!” shrieked Braunt. “An inquest! You don’t mean to say--you
can’t mean it!--Jessie is not dead?”
“Yes, she is dead. I can do no good here. I’ll let the coroner know,
and he can do as he pleases. I have no doubt it is all right, but we are
bound to act according to the law, you know. Good-night!”
Braunt threw himself upon the bed in a storm of grief; Langly stood by
the side of the dead girl, stunned. He took her limp, thin hand in his,
and gazed down upon her, dazed and tearless. Her father rose and paced
the room, alternately pleading with fate and cursing it. Suddenly he
turned on Langly like a madman.
“What are you doing here?” he roared. “It was your interference that
caused her last words to be troubled. Get you gone, and leave us alone!”
Langly turned from the bed and walked slowly to the door without a word,
Braunt following him with his lowering, bloodshot eyes. The young man
paused irresolutely at the door, leaned his arm against it, and bowed
his head in hopeless anguish.
“Heaven help me!” he said, despairingly, “I loved her too.”
Braunt looked at him a moment, not comprehending at first. Gradually the
anger faded from his face.
“Did you so, lad?” he said gently, at last. “I didn’t know--I didn’t
know. Forgive me my brutish temper. God knows it should be broken
by this time. I’m crazy, lad, and know not what I say. I have not a
penny-piece in the world, nor where to go to get aught. My lassie shall
not have a pauper’s funeral in this heartless town. No, not if I have to
take her in my arms, as I ha’ oft done, and trudge wi’ her to the North,
sleeping under the hedges by the way. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. We’ll be
tramping to the _Dead March_ then. It will keep us company. We’ll rest
at night in the green fields under the trees, away from the smoke and
din, alone together. Ah, God! I’ll begin the journey now and tramp all
night to be quit o’ this Babylon ere the morning.”
“No, no!” cried Langly, catching his arm. “You mustn’t do that. You must
hear what the coroner says.”
“What has the coroner or any one else to do with me or her?”
“It is the law: you must obey it.”
“What care I for the law? What’s it done for either me or Jessie? I’ll
have no pauper funeral, law or no law.”
“There won’t be a pauper funeral. There are kind hearts in London, as
well as in the North. Promise me you’ll do nothing until I see if I can
get the money.”
“I promise,” said Braunt, sinking into his chair. “I doubt if I could
walk far to-night, even if I tried. But leave me now, lad, and come back
again later. I want to be alone and think.”
Langly left the room, and on the landing met Marsten, whom he did not
know, but who he saw was about to enter.
“Don’t go in,” he whispered. “He wants to be alone.”
“Is there anything wrong?” asked Marsten, alarmed at the tone of the
other.
“Yes, his daughter is dead.”
“Dead! Good God! How? An accident?”
“No. She has been ill for weeks, but no one thought of this. Jessie died
about an hour since--unexpectedly. Are you a friend of his?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must help me--tell me what to do. Come down into the court
where we can talk.”
The two young men descended the stair.
“Braunt has no money, and he will not have his daughter buried by the
Parish. We must get money. I have promised it, but I have very little
myself, although I will willingly give all I have. If it was more I
would not ask help from any one.”
“I have only a few shillings,” said Marsten, “but we must get more
somehow. None of the men has any, or they would give it. Yesterday
I could have gone to Sartwell; but to-day, unfortunately, I have
quarrelled with him, bitterly and irretrievably, I fear. Although he
said nothing to me, I can’t go to him. But there is Barnard Hope. Yes,
he’s the man. He helped Braunt when there was trouble with the police. I
don’t like to go to Barnard Hope--for certain reasons I don’t care to be
indebted to him. Would you mind going? He lives in Chelsea.”
“No. I will do anything I can. I have promised.”
“Then I would go to-night if I were you. Tomorrow is his ‘At Home’ day,
and there will be a lot of people there. It will be difficult to see
him then, and we can’t wait until the day after. His address is
Craigenputtoch House, Chelsea. If you fail, I will see his father, so
one or other of us is sure to get the money.”
“I will go at once,” said Langly.
It was a long journey to Chelsea, and when the tired organist reached
the place he found Barney had a theatre party on, with a dance to
follow, and would not likely be home that night. It was uncertain when
he would return in the morning, but he would be sure to be back at three
o’clock, as his ‘At Home’ friends would begin to gather at that hour,
so Barney’s servant said. The wearied man tramped back, and reached Rose
Garden Court about midnight. He rapped at Braunt’s door, and, receiving
no answer, pushed it open after a moment’s hesitation. He feared
the headstrong, impatient man might, after all, have carried out his
resolution, and left with his burden for the North, but he found nothing
changed. Braunt sat there with his head in his hands, and gave him no
greeting.
“I am to have the money to-morrow,” Langly said, feeling sure it would
not be refused.
Braunt made no answer, and, taking one look at the silent figure on the
bed, whose face seemed now like that of a little child, the young man
departed as quietly as he had entered.
Mrs. Scimmins met him on the stair. She wanted to know all about it.
She said that the women of the court, when they heard of the death, had
offered their help, but Braunt had acted like a brute, and had driven
them away with fearful oaths. She was sure something was wrong. The
coroner had been there, and thought so too. There was to be an inquest
at the Vestry Hall in the morning. A summons had been left for Langly to
attend and give his evidence.
“But I’m going to Chelsea in the morning,” cried the young man, aghast.
“I know nothing, except that Jessie has been ill.”
“You saw her die, they say. Braunt admitted that. You will have to
attend the inquest, or they will send a policeman after you.”
Langly did not sleep that night, and was gaunt and haggard in the
morning. The coroner’s jury trooped up the stair, and, after looking at
the dead girl, adjourned to the Vestry Hall. Langly gave his evidence,
and, leaving the room at once, hovered about the door, waiting for
Braunt, who remained in the Vestry Hall. At last he came out, with white
face, staring straight ahead of him.
“What did they say?” asked Langly; but the other did not answer,
striding through the curious crowd as if he saw nothing.
“What was the verdict?” inquired a bystander of one of the jurymen as he
came out.
“Starved to death,” replied the man.