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.