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.