It was Barney’s habit, now that money flowed in upon him, to deal
liberally with his cabmen. He would hand to the man two or three
sovereigns, or even a five-pound note if there happened to be one loose
in his waistcoat pocket, and say to him:
“Now I may need you only twenty minutes, or I may need you all the
afternoon; but I want you to feel happy while you’re driving me, don’t
you know, so here’s all I’m going to give you, and I wish to have no
dispute about fares at the end of the journey.” There never was any
dispute, and Barney was extremely popular with the driving fraternity.
When the date of the wedding was fixed, Barney, on his return to London,
took a cab at ten pounds in honour of the forthcoming event. He said to
himself that he couldn’t give less and retain his self-respect, as he
intended using the cab in completing the necessary arrangements for the
ceremony. He drove first to the residence of the clergyman who was
in charge of St. Martyrs-in-the-East; for he had determined that the
marriage should take place in this church, because it was the nearest
sacred building to his father’s works and was surrounded by a population
largely in the employ of the firm, directly or indirectly. Besides this,
Barney took a particular delight in the thought that all the newspapers
would be compelled to send representatives to this unfashionable
locality; for the wedding would be a notable one, and he was now so
famous that should he marry or die in the most unknown spot in the
British Isles, his doing so would forever bestow distinction on the
place.
The genial old clergyman was undeniably impressed by the fact that so
celebrated a man chose St. Martyrs for such an important ceremony.
“Of course,” said Barney, airily, “I shall have a bishop or two to
assist you, and perhaps a few lesser dignitaries. If you will just give
me the names of any you prefer, I shall put myself into communication
with them.”
“You mean that I shall assist the bishop,” protested the reverend
gentleman, mildly. “His Lordship, as of course you know, takes
precedence.”
“Oh, well, you’ll arrange all that among yourselves. I don’t understand
these matters, you know: I was never married before, and I leave
every detail in the hands of those experienced. What I wish is to have
everything well done, regardless of expense. If you will allow me I
would like to send you a cheque for a thousand pounds, to be distributed
among the poor, don’t you know, and that sort of thing, in honour of the
occasion. I suppose it can be managed.”
“We shall be very grateful indeed for it. A plethora of money has never
been one of the obstacles with which we have had to contend in this
parish.”
“Then that’s all right. Now, have you seen your organist lately? What’s
his name? It has slipped my memory for the moment.”
“Langly. I am sorry to say he has not been at all well lately. Not ill,
exactly, for he has been able to attend to his duties, but still
far from well. I think he needs some one to look after him. He is an
absent-minded man--a dreamer--and I fear he neglects himself.”
“I have tried to help him,” said Barney; “but he shrinks from assistance
of any kind as if it were infectious. He never will call on me, and I
have had so many demands on my time lately that I have not looked him
up, as I intended to do. Could you give me his address? I had it once,
but I’ve mislaid it.”
“He lives in wretched quarters--No. 3 Rose Garden Court, off Light
Street. I don’t think he would like you to call upon him. It would be
better to write. It is very difficult to do anything for him, as you
say, except indirectly. When I visited him, on hearing he was not well,
I could see that my presence discomposed him.”
“I wanted to speak with you about helping him indirectly. You all
appreciate his abilities, of course.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And yet, as you say, you are not a rich parish. Now here is a cheque
for a hundred pounds. I would make it more, but that would arouse his
suspicions, very likely. Would you take this, and increase his salary by
that much yearly?--I will send a similar cheque once a year--and put it
to him that the increase is because of the general admiration there is
felt for--well, you know what I mean? So that he will be encouraged,
don’t you know.”
“It is very generous of you, Mr. Hope, and I shall see that your wishes
are carried out.”
When the interview with the kindly vicar was finished, Barney jumped
into his hansom and drove to Light Street. It was impossible to take the
cab into Rose Garden Court; so Barney, securing as a guide one of the
numerous ragged urchins who thronged the place, made his way up the
rickety stairs and knocked at Langly’s door. A faint voice from within
told him to enter, and on going in Barney saw the organist sitting on
the bed. Langly had evidently been lying down, and now, with noticeable
difficulty, sat up to greet his unexpected visitor. Thin as he had
been when Barney saw him last, he was still thinner now, and a ghastly
pallour overspread his face.
“I say, old man!” cried Barney, stopping short. “You’re not looking
first-rate, don’t you know. Have you been ill?”
“I’ve not been well, but I’m better now, thank you,” replied Langly,
a shadow that would have been a flush in a healthy man coming over his
cheeks.
Clearly he did not like the intrusion; and Barney, remembering the
vicar’s words, saw that.
“Now, Langly,” he said, “you mustn’t mind my coming in this
unceremonious way, because I’m here to beg a great favour of you. I’m
the most dependent man on my friends that there is in all London--I am,
for a fact. It seems to me I spend all my time getting other fellows to
do things for me, and they do them too, by Jove! in the most kindly way.
This is a very accommodating, indulgent world, don’t you know. Now you
just lie down again--I see I’ve disturbed you--I’m always disturbing
somebody--and let me talk to you like a favourite uncle. I’m going to be
married, Langly!--what do you think of that? And I’ll bet you a sixpence
you can’t tell where.”
Langly, who still sat on the edge of his bed, ignoring Barney’s command,
smiled wanly and shook his head.
“I knew you couldn’t. Well, the ceremony is to be performed with great
_éclat_, as the papers say, at St. Martyrs-in-the-East. First time old
St. Marts has ever seen a fashionable wedding, I venture to say. I have
just been to see the vicar, arranging all the details. What a nice old
man he is!--and I say, Langly, you ought to have heard him praise
you and your music! It’s very pleasing to be appreciated,--I like it
myself.”
Langly, in spite of his pallour, actually blushed at this, but said
nothing.
“Now, that brings us to the music on the wedding-day--and that’s why I’m
here. You will play the organ, of course.”
“I shall do my best,” murmured Langly.
“There is nothing better than that. But here is what I want, and I know
it’s a great favour I’m asking. I want you to compose a wedding march
for us. I’ll have it published afterwards, and I know, when you see the
bride, you won’t need any begging from me to get you to dedicate it to
her.”
“I’m afraid----” began the organist.
“Oh, no, you’re not,” interrupted Barney. “You are such a modest fellow,
Langly, I knew you’d be full of excuses; but I’m not going to let you
off. I’ve set my heart on having a special wedding march. Any pair
of fools can be married to Mendelssohn, don’t you know; but we want
something all our own. It isn’t as if a fellow were married every day,
you know.”
“I was going to say that I feel hardly equal----I don’t think I could
do justice----but there is a march I composed about a year ago--it has
never been played or heard by any one but myself. If you liked it----”
“Of course I’ll like it. That will be the very thing.”
“I would compose one for you, but I am sure I could do nothing so good
as that, and I want to give you my best.”
“I’m sure you do. So that’s all settled. Now, Langly, here comes the
uncle talk. I told you I was going to talk to you like an uncle, you
know. You must get out of this hole, and you must get out now. It’s
enough to kill the strongest man to stay in this place. I’ve got a
hansom waiting in the street; so come with me and we will look up a
decent pair of rooms with a motherly old woman to look after you.”
Langly was plainly embarrassed. At last he stammered:
“I can’t afford a better place than this. I know it may not seem very
comfortable to you, but it’s all I really need.”
“Afford it! Of course you can afford a better place! Oh, I had
forgotten. They haven’t told you, then?”
“Told me what?”
“Well, I don’t know that I should mention it. The fact is (it all came
out quite incidentally when I was talking to the vicar--I told you
he was saying nice things about you! ), I imagine they’re preparing a
little surprise for you; so never say I spoke of it, but I don’t like
surprises myself. I always tell the boys that if they’ve any surprises
for me, to let me know in advance, so that I may prepare the proper
expression. What I don’t like about a surprise is to have it sprung on
me without being told of it beforehand. Well, as I said, I shouldn’t
mention this; but the churchwardens and the vicar and a number of the
parishioners have resolved to increase your salary by one hundred
pounds a year. I was very glad to hear it, and I said so. ‘To show our
appreciation of his music,’ were the exact words of the vicar. Splendid
old chap, the vicar!--I like him.”
Barney walked up and down the room as he talked, never glancing at his
listener. Langly’s eyes filled with tears: he tried to speak, but
he could not. Then he lay down on the bed and buried his face in the
pillow. His visitor chattered on, pacing to and fro, taking no notice of
the other’s emotion, until Langly, recovering himself, said, gratefully:
“It is very, very good of them. They have always been exceedingly kind
to me.”
“Oh, it’s merely a matter of business. They don’t want some other church
to lure you away. Trust a churchwarden! He’s always up to snuff. Now,
Langly, you must come with me. If you resist, I’ll pick you up in my arms
and carry you down to my hansom as if you were a baby. Brace up, old
man, and come along!”
Faintly protesting, but in his weakness making no resistance, Langly
staggered down to Light Street, leaning on Barney’s arm. In about half
an hour a comfortable domicile was found near the church, and a porter
was sent back to Rose Garden Court to fetch the musician’s’ belongings.
*****
The wedding ceremony was all that the best friends of the happy pair
could wish. Never had old St. Martyrs seen such a brilliant assemblage.
The splendid _Wedding March_ was a triumph, filling the resonant church
with its jubilant, entrancing harmonies, and it was played as no march
had ever been played before.
Barney stole a moment or two, while friends were pressing around the
bride, and drew Betson, the chief press man present, into a corner.
“Now, Betson,” he said, “you heard that music.”
“It was glorious!” replied the journalist.
“Of course it was, and composed specially for this occasion, remember.
You may abuse me in the papers, if you like, Betson; if there’s anything
wrong--although I don’t think there is--lay the blame on me; but one
thing I beg of you, and please tell the other fellows this, won’t
you?--give a line or two of deserved praise to the organist and the
music. Do, if you love me, Betson! The man’s a genius!--I’m not the only
one who says so, although I was the first to recognize the fact. You’ll
put in something nice about him, won’t you? and give the others the tip
to do the same.”
“I’ll go and see him; then I can do a special article on him.”
“I wish you would; but remember he’s very shy, and if he suspects your
purpose you won’t get anything out of him. He’s a recluse. Talk to
him about organs and music, and let him think you’re merely a
fellow-enthusiast.”
“Never fear. I’ll manage him.”
For a week Langly had feared he would not be equal to the ordeal that
faced him. He was anxious, for Barney’s sake, to acquit himself well;
but he was scarcely able to totter to the church and back to his rooms,
although, when once seated before the banks of keys, renewed life seemed
to animate his emaciated frame; but when the enthusiasm of playing
passed away, he was left more deeply depressed than ever. Music was now
a stimulant to him, and the longer the intoxication of sound lasted, the
greater the reaction after.
His whole frame trembled when he saw how large an audience was to listen
on the wedding-day, and he prayed that strength might be given him to
perform his part flawlessly. When at last the supreme moment came, he
looked with breathless fear at his shaking hands hovering over the keys;
but when he touched them, he heard the sweet, pure, liquid, low notes
come firm and sustained, like tones from a mellow flute, and his whole
being thrilled when he became conscious of the instantaneous hush that
fell on the vast assemblage, as though all had simultaneously ceased
to breathe, fearing to miss a single golden thread of melody, or the
enchanting mingling of them into the divinest, most subdued harmony, as
if a choir of nightingales were singing far off, almost, but not
quite, beyond hearing distance. When the music, swelling from its soft
beginning, rose towards its climax, Langly knew he was master of the
instrument as he had never been before. All fear left him, and a wild
exultation took its place. It mattered nothing whether one or a thousand
listened. As he gazed upward, with rapt ecstatic face, it seemed to him
that the sounds took the form of an innumerable host of angels, flying
about the beetling cliff of pipes that towered above him, and his own
soul floated there also. Marvelling at this aerial vision, he yet played
with his almost miraculous skill to the end; and as the last notes died
away he saw the angels drop their wings one by one and fade into the
empty air. He pushed in the stop that shut off the bellows motor, and
for a moment his nerveless fingers touched the silent manual from which
the breath of life had departed. A mist lowered before his eyes, his
head sank slowly forward, and Death pillowed it gently on the soundless
keys.