CHAPTER XXX.

Ingenious persons have shown that a five-pound note rightly guided will liquidate an almost unlimited amount of liability. Let it be granted, says the mathematician, that A owes B; B owes C; C owes D, and D owes A,—one hundred shillings in each case. A gives a five-pound note to B, who gives it to C, who gives it to D, who gives it to A. The peregrinations of the same note wipes out twenty pounds of debt, and A has the original bit of paper he started with.

In like manner a clever person can bestow a great favour upon another and at the same time accommodate several others, leaving all under obligations to him; while a blunderer, instead of making everybody happy, would have accomplished nothing beyond creating enemies for himself.

The shrewd Haldiman, bringing some promised work to the editor of “Our National Art,” casually mentioned that Barnard Hope had been invited to send some of his paintings to Paris.

“What! Do you mean the Chelsea giant? Why, that ass doesn’t understand the rudiments of drawing, and as for colour—great heavens! there isn’t a pavement chalk artist who is not his superior.”

Haldiman looked puzzled; then he said with some hesitation:

“I confess I used to think that; but of course we studied together in Paris, and we students always underestimate each other. There is something in Barney’s paintings that I don’t pretend to understand.”

“Understand! Bosh! There’s nothing in them but the vilest and most ignorant smearing ever put upon canvas.”

“Then how do you account for the fact that some of the most advanced critics are beginning to consider Barney seriously, as a new factor in the art world?”

“I hadn’t heard of it. Who, for instance?”

“Well, I’m told that Viellieme simply raves over his work—says it’s a distinctive new note, and that Barney is the only original genius England has ever produced.”

“You amaze me! It can’t be true! Whatever any one may say of Viellieme’s morale nature, no one can deny that he knows a picture when he sees it.”

“Of course; I’m simply giving what I have heard. As I say, I don’t admire Barney’s work myself. However, I’m just off for Paris, and I’ll find out for you, on the quiet, just what Viellieme thinks. If Barney is a coming man you’d want to know it, and at least give the first inkling of the new craze, if there is to be one, wouldn’t you?”

“Certainly. But I can’t believe it!”

“I’m not sure that I ought to mention it, but I know that a number of Barney’s paintings are going over to France, and I believe especially for Viellieme’s inspection.”

“I say, Haldiman, just find out for me all you can, will you? It seems incredible! Still, art is full of surprises, and I should like to know. If it is true, try to induce Viellieme to write an article on the new era in art for me.”

“Would you print an article on Barney, if I get Viellieme to write it? I thought you didn’t care for Barney’s work.”

“I don’t, but I’ll gladly print anything Viellieme will sign. Of course, among the different schools I endeavour to maintain absolute impartiality. I believe in letting every side be heard.”

“Well, I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks, Haldiman. I’ll be very much obliged to you, and any expense you——”

“Oh, don’t mention it. I’m going to Paris anyhow, so there won’t be any extra expense.”

The article, marvellously illustrated, appeared in due course. The result quite justified Barney’s expectations and expenditure, and the Barnard Hope boom raged up and down the land. He was interviewed, and photographed, and paragraphed. For a time it was hardly possible to pick up a sixpenny illustrated weekly without seeing the latest photograph of Barney in it, for the young man developed a genius for posing before a camera that would have done credit to our greatest actor. The picture representing him standing with arms folded across his breast, a stern commanding expression upon his countenance, was the one perhaps most sought after by young ladies, although the one in which he looked like Rembrandt was also very popular. Exhibitors begged for his paintings, nabobs bought them, and nobody understood them, which fact made the boom a permanency. Real painters looked at each other in amazement, and asked, “What is this world coming to?”—a question often propounded and never adequately answered.

His great fame did not change Barney a particle; he was the same hail-fellow he had always been, and an invitation to his “At Home” became a distinction. America was especially lavish in its purchases of his work, and he was offered fabulous sums to go there and lecture. The adulation he received would have turned the head of almost any man; but it had little effect on him, because he never had the slightest misgiving that his great reputation was entirely undeserved, and he had looked upon himself as the foremost man of the age long before the world had recognized the fact. He received letters from all parts of the country, whose writers, in most gushing phrase, said they had been privileged to look upon his work at such and such an exhibition, and they hoped to live better and nobler lives in consequence. Some of these epistles affected Barney almost to tears, and he read them to his friends, humbly thankful that the gift of bestowing such pleasure, and wielding such an influence for good upon his fellow-creatures, had been granted him.

Imitators arose, of course, but they did little to tarnish his reputation; for, as Haldiman had said, there was only one Barney, and it is never given to two men in any one generation to paint as badly as Barney did. Art-critics scored the imitators mercilessly, and were in the habit of saying that if Barnard Hope had not lived such and such a picture would not have been painted,—which statement was probably quite true.

Barney’s people were naturally very proud of him. His father had always admired him with the intense admiration which a very little man has for a very big relative; his mother referred to him as, “My son, Barnard Hope, the celebrated painter.”

To all appearances Barney was a man greatly to be envied, but, alas! how little does the public know the inner life of even its greatest favourite! All may be fair to outward view, while within sits brooding care. Barney had a secret trouble which he confided to no one, and it caused him serious mental dissatisfaction. He had told Edna Sartwell that she had blighted his life, and he fully believed this at the time he made the gloomy statement. He sombrely pictured himself in the future as a disappointed man—successful, perhaps, but cynically bitter with existence, living the life of a recluse, and cherishing his broken heart. As the victim of a hopeless passion, he pitied himself, and yet took a melancholy pleasure in ruminating over the wreck of what might have been a joyful career. To his dismay he found it impossible to live up to his ideal. The forced laugh; the pessimistic smile; the dark mantle of a great reserve which he hoped to fold around himself, did not come natural to him, and he was continually backsliding into being his own hilarious boisterous self, and having a good time, when he should have been moping alone over an aching void. Above all things he expected himself to forswear ladies’ society, and never again indulge in the light, flippant, and complimentary talk in which he had been an acknowledged master; but it grieved him to discover that he still took a keen delight in their presence, while they, poor dears! unblushingly adored Barney as they had always done. His arrival in any room immediately brightened the occasion, and he was by all odds the most popular young man in his set. His failure in the tragicrôlehe had marked out for himself at first worried Barney, and led him to suspect that he was not so deep as he had imagined; but this disquieting thought gave way under his ultimate realization that the taciturn recluse of fiction and the drama was merely a melancholy humbug who did not exist in real life. This comforting discovery did much to place Barney once more on good terms with himself, and by-and-by he abandoned the attempt to pose as a stricken victim of woman’s inappreciation, and was once more the genial host and the welcome guest.

As time went on, and his fame continued to spread, he fell more and more under the gentle influence of Lady Mary Fanshaw, who was a modest, refined, and altogether charming girl. She had an unbounded admiration for Barney’s strength and manliness; and his many deeds of kindness and lavish generosity, which he himself was at no particular pains to conceal, won her deep regard. She did not pretend to understand his paintings, but was quite willing to believe what appeared to be the universal estimate, that they were works of the very highest genius.

In the company of Lady Mary, Barney’s heroic determination to lead a monastic life became fainter and fainter. When Barney saw whither he was drifting, he held a serious consultation with himself. Six months had elapsed since the episode at Eastbourne, and this half year had been the most fateful in his whole existence. Even though there was a lingering disappointment over the now self-admitted fact that his life had not been wrecked, yet he felt he owed it to his dignity not to propose to Lady Mary until a year at least had intervened between the two matrimonial excursions. To propose sooner would be to admit that he did not know his own mind—and he particularly prided himself on his strength of mind. An action that is indecent haste in six months may be the epitome of calm deliberation in twelve. Instances are on record where a man’s most cherished political convictions have changed completely within a year, and a grateful country has testified its appreciation of the honesty of the transformation by bestowing a peerage or a knighthood upon the man. Why, then, should not a great painter be deeply in love with two charming girls, if a reasonable interval separated the declarations of affection? Barney said to himself that it was undoubtedly wrong to be in love with two or more at the same time, and he had to admit that in former days he had come dangerously near that complicated condition; but he was young at the time, and youth is an excuse which covers a multitude of errors. “This day six months,” said Barney, definitely, “I shall ask Lady Mary to be my wife.” Having thus reached finality in his meditations, he felt that sense of satisfaction which a man always experiences when a perplexing problem is authoritatively settled one way or another. Nothing is so demoralizing as indecision. Hitherto he had been almost afraid to meet Lady Mary, much as he delighted in her companionship; but now there was no reason why he should hold aloof from her. Therefore, having written down the date on which the momentous proposal was to take place, he arose with a joyful exuberance of spirits, and resolved to celebrate his decision by driving down to the pretty Surrey village near which Lady Mary’s father lived. The tandem was a thing of the past.

He found that the sight of it brought up painful recollections of Eastbourne; so he sold it, and acquired a most stylish four-wheeled vehicle which he called his “growler,” drawn by two spirited black horses. He spoke to his friends apologetically about his growler, and said it gave no particular scope for a man’s driving powers, but would serve until the coach which he had ordered from the most noted builders in London was finished. A four-in-hand, he held, was the only thing a man could drive with credit to himself and satisfaction to all beholders. So with the black span dancing before him, held by a firm hand, he rattled across Chelsea bridge and made for the interior of Surrey.

It is a pleasant thing on a beautiful day to drive through Surrey lanes, with a fine pair of horses in front and a liveried menial with folded arms on the seat behind. Barney, who knew the country well, chose the by-roads rather than the main thoroughfares; for he had a keen love of nature and an appreciation of landscape, as became a man who had placed on canvas so many amazing reproductions of natural scenery.

As he neared his destination he turned into the particular lane which he knew to be Lady Mary’s favourite walk, and he kept a sharp look-out ahead, hoping to descry the girl in the distance. He also looked at his watch, and slowed the horses when he saw he had arrived at the head of the lane somewhat in advance of the time he had set for himself. Barney was, above all things, a practical man, and he knew that, outside the drama, coincidences rarely happened unless they were touched up a bit; so before leaving Chelsea he took the precaution to telegraph Lady Mary, telling her that at a certain hour he would be at the head of the lane, and that if he met there any one who lived in the neighbourhood who would extend to him a cordial invitation to visit a certain country house, he would accept with all the heartfelt gratitude of a homeless man perambulating the country with two horses and a wagon. It was one of Barney’s habits rarely to write a letter, and to depend almost entirely on the telegraph as a means of communication with his fellows. He delighted in sending a friend a ten-page telegram on some perfectly trivial subject, and to the numerous people all over the country who now wrote to him asking for his autograph, he invariably sent it in a long telegram, explaining in the message that, as he never wrote letters, any signature of his at the end of an epistle was sure to be a forgery, and no autographs were genuine unless they came by wire. Barney’s electrical autographs now bring good prices at auction sales.

As he entered the lane, then, he looked ahead for the fulfilment of the coincidence he had arranged; and was presently rewarded by seeing the fine figure of the girl coming towards him, an ebony stick in her hand, and three big dogs following her. Barney threw the reins to his man, told him to drive on, and sprang down.

The girl’s cheeks were as rosy as the dawn, either with the exercise in the pure air or the pleasure of meeting him.

After greeting her, he cried:

“You got my telegram, then?”

“Yes. Have you any money left after sending it?”

“Oh, I’m in funds to-day. I sold a picture for a thousand pounds yesterday to a Chicago man. They know how to buy, those Western fellows! He took one of the burnt-umber night scenes, made me sign my name on it in scarlet with letters three inches long, and then told me with a chuckle, after it was done, that he would have given a couple of hundred extra for the signature if I had held out. Thus are we poor artists imposed upon! Still, the scarlet lettering completely killed the half-tones in the painting, and ruined it, in my opinion; but he said it was the signature he wanted, so we are both satisfied. He was a perfectly frank heathen: said he could buy better paintings in Chicago for five dollars each, with a discount off if he took a quantity, but that people over there wouldn’t have the work of the native artists at any price. He proudly claimed to know nothing about art himself—tinned goods was his line. I said I supposed that was all right as long as the goods brought in the tin, and he replied that that was what he was after.”

“Well, I’m sure I congratulate you.”

“Me? Now, Lady Mary, I call that hard lines. I thought you were a friend of mine—I did, indeed.”

“I am. May I not congratulate you on selling a picture?”

“No, your ladyship; no, m’um! But you might congratulate the Chicago man. I feel that he did me out of two hundred. Oh, he’s got a bargain, and he knows it! I tell you what it is, my pictures are getting so expensive that I am beginning to realize it is reckless extravagance for me to have so many of them hanging in my studio. It looks like ostentation, and I hate that. That’s why I took the thousand, merely to get rid of it.”

“Did it take you long to paint?”

“Yes, a good while. Of course I can’t tell just how long, for one does not do a masterpiece like that right off the reel, don’t you know. I suppose I must have spent as much as six hours on it, off and on. You see you have to wait until the groundwork dries before you can go on with the rest. I first, with a big brush, covered the whole of the canvas with burnt-umber, and then let it dry. That’s night, as it would appear if there were no lights anywhere. Then you put in your high lights—little dabs of white paint. That seems easy, but I tell you it requires genius. Then, if there is water, even though unseen to the general eye, you put in little wabbly lines of grey paint under the dots of high light, and there you are, don’t you know. It all seems simple enough to talk about, and plenty of fellows are trying it, now I have shown them the way; but somehow they don’t hit it off, don’t you know. But sink the shop in a Surrey lane; I hate talking shop, anyhow! Now, am I going to get my invitation, or am I not?”

“Of course you are. My father is most anxious to meet you.”

“That’s very nice of him. But, I say, Lady Mary——”

The young man stopped suddenly, and the girl looked up at him. She read in his eyes such honest, undisguised admiration of herself, that she dropped her own and blushed still more rosily.

“What is it?” she asked. “Have you forgotten something?”

“No,” he said eagerly, taking the unresisting fingers of her two hands in his, as they stood there. “No, I have just remembered. I ought to have something to say to your father, don’t you know. We can’t talk about painting, and——well, Mary, we should have some topic of vital interest to us both to discuss, shouldn’t we?”

The girl laughed a little, but did not reply. The three dogs stood some distance off, regarding the pair with suspicion; and a low growl from one of them indicated that the situation was unusual and must not be carried too far.

“What shall I say to him, Mary?” cried the young man, with a tender thrill in his deep voice. “May I tell him I care more for his daughter than for any one else in the world? May I?”

The girl made no attempt to withdraw her hands, nor did she do more than give him one swift, brief glance.

“If it is true,” she murmured, “I see no reason why you should not tell him so.”

“True!” cried Barney, fervently. “There’s nothing on earth so true, Mary, my darling, as that I love you! And do you—do you care in the least for a big blundering fellow like me?”

“Always, always!” said Lady Mary. “Ever since I first met you. And long before the world recognized your genius, Barney, I did.”

The jubilant young man, suddenly abandoning the hands that were thus promised him, clasped the girl to him and kissed her. It is a remarkable thing that a man often attains celebrity for doing something that hundreds of others do better, while the world remains ignorant of performances that are really entitled to fame. As Barney threw one arm around Lady Mary’s waist, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the big dog spring at his throat. Yet the young man kissed the girl as tenderly and as gently as if nothing particular were happening on the other side of him; and Lady Mary, closing her eyes for the moment, rested her head against his breast and breathed a deep sigh of contentment. She was awakened from her momentary dream by savage, mouthing growls, and, remembering the dogs, jumped back in alarm. With rigid muscles Barney held at arm’s length, his strong hand grasping the collar, a brute only slightly smaller than a pony, whose angry fangs were tearing at his coat-sleeve. The other two dogs looked on, snarling, but apparently waiting for their mistress to give the word of attack. The girl shrieked at the sight.

“Down, Nero, down!” she cried. “How dare you, sir!”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Barney, nonchalantly. “Don’t scold him. ’Tis his nature to, don’t you know. He’ll find out two things in about a minute: first, and most important, that I’m going to be one of the family; and second, that he’s met his match. I say, Mary, this wouldn’t be a bad scene for the Aquarium, don’t you know,—Sampson defying the lightning, or was it Ajax? I never can remember those classical allusions.”

“Down, sir!” commanded the girl. “Come here and apologize!”

Barney relaxed his grasp on the collar, and the huge dog cringed up to Lady Mary with a most crestfallen air. It was evident that, although he deferred to his mistress’s authority, he was still unshaken in his opinion that such goings on as he had just beheld were entirely out of order; and although he humbly licked the girl’s hand, he cast side looks at Barney that were anything but friendly, yet the truculent glance was mitigated by that respect for proven strength which one strong animal feels when he meets a stronger. The girl, crouching, patted his shaggy coat, and, alternately scolding and petting him, explained the situation as well as she could, beseeching Nero to treat Barney as a brother.

When she stood up again—blessed are the peacemakers!—Barney said:

“Let’s see if he understands?”

“Now, Barney,” cried the girl, “you must behave yourself! You can’t tell who might come into view any moment.”

“We’ll risk the chance comer—purely for the dog’s benefit, you know, Mary.”

The big dog made no move this time; but his angry eye lighted up with a dangerous lurid gleam, and the corners of his heavy lips quivered, showing the teeth.

“Oh, it’s a case of pure jealousy,” said Barney. “I can see that. Nero and I never can be friends.” They walked together slowly along the lane, the dogs in front. Nero seemed exceedingly dejected, and strode with offended dignity, taking little notice of the other two dogs; who, with a levity that met his sullen disapproval, indicated now and then by deep, low growls of rebuke, futilely chased imaginary rabbits by the hedge-rows, tumbling over each other in their frivolous, headlong career.

“Do you know, Mary, I think we should join hands and swing our arms as we walk along. I want to shout and whoop like a red Indian—and yet calm reflection tells me it isn’t good form. I believe I’m hopelessly plebeian, and yearn for a Whitechapel expression of my happiness. If I weren’t afraid of the dog—that is, morally afraid, for I can throttle him physically—I’d pull the pin out of that most fetching hat of yours, and put the hat on my own head, giving you mine. Actually, I’d like to dance, don’t you know!”

The girl laughed.

“I shouldn’t mind a dance myself,” she said.

“Oh, then it’s all right! I was beginning to fear I had a costermonger for my ancestor; but, if you’re not shocked, I may, for all I know, be descended from the Conqueror.”

“Well, if you want to shout, do it now; for I want you to be very circumspect and proper when we walk up the avenue.”

Barney did not shout, but he placed his arm around her, and——and felt it was most delightful to be thus taken in charge and told how to behave.

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 greatéclat, 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 splendidWedding Marchwas 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.

The building erected on the site of the wing destroyed by fire was larger than the one it replaced, and its plan was so well thought out that its convenience far excelled that of its companion factory, and increased the output of the firm by a much greater proportion than its greater size seemed to warrant.

“All we need now,” said Sartwell, to little Mr. Hope, “is the other wing to burn down; then we could have a model establishment.”

Mr. Hope looked up at Sartwell in alarm, as if he expected to see his manager apply the torch to the old building. He never quite fathomed Sartwell’s somewhat grim style of humour.

The four houses that had been leased, to form a temporary annex to the works during the erection of the new wing, were kept on, and never in the long history of the firm was so much profitable business done, nor so large a dividend declared as during the months that followed the completion of the new building. The firm had good cause to be grateful to its manager. Both Monkton and Hope recognized that their constantly increasing prosperity was due to this resolute, self-reliant man, and they rewarded him as capitalists usually reward those who serve them well. Not only was his already large salary increased, without any demand on his part, but, when the business was formed into a private company, they allotted him a block of stock of the nominal value of a thousand pounds, the income from which, should the welfare of the company continue at its then level, would be sufficient to make Sartwell independent for life; and at the first meeting of the new board he was made managing director.

This meeting took place a little more than a year after the new wing had been opened, and Sartwell, addressing his fellow-directors, said:

“I am not good at returning thanks—by words at least; but, as you know, I shall try to make the stock you have given me a good investment for the new company. It might seem, under the circumstances, that I ought to be well content; yet human nature is hard to satisfy, and I am about to ask for further powers. I want an understanding that I am to have a free hand in case we should have another strike. I also want the power of increasing the wages of the men—not to exceed, say ten per cent—at any time, without the necessity of consulting the board.”

“Why?” asked Monkton. “The board can be convened at any moment.”

“As a matter of fact it cannot. By your articles of association there must be seven days’ clear notice, and the object of the meeting must be stated when the call is made. Now, it may become necessary to act at once, and I want the power to do so.”

“Surely there is no danger of another strike,” said Mr. Hope, anxiously. “The men had such a severe lesson——”

“A lesson lasts the workingman just so long as his belly is empty, and rarely influences him after his first full meal. The Union is already working up to a demand for increased wages. Times are good, and they know it. We must face an increase of wages, and I want that increase to come voluntarily from the company, and not under compulsion. You may depend upon me to do nothing rash, but I want the power to announce such increase at any moment.”

The power to act promptly was given him, and he was assured that, in the event of another strike, the whole strength of the company would be behind him; but he was besought by Mr. Hope to avoid trouble if it were possible to do so.

After the meeting Sartwell went down to Eastbourne, and, with his daughter, took a long walk on the breezy downs.

“Well, girlie,” he said, after telling her of the firm’s generosity, “you are an heiress now, on a small scale. I have made over that thousand pounds to you, and as it is really worth ten thousand, I think it is a good deal of money for a little girl like you to accumulate before she comes of age.”

“But I’m not going to accept it, father!” cried Edna. “I’ll make it all over to you again.”

“Then we shall play battledore and shuttlecock with the stock. I generally have my own way, Edna, so you may as well give in gracefully to the inevitable. Besides, this comes as a sort of windfall; I didn’t reckon on it, so you don’t leave me a penny poorer than I was a month ago. I’ve laid by a bit of money in my time, and have at last got rid of a fear that has haunted me all my life—the fear of a poverty-stricken old age. That’s why I draw such deep, satisfying breaths of this splendid air from the sea. Grey hair came, Edna, before the goal was in sight, but it’s in sight now, my girl.”

“I’m so glad, father,” she said, drawing down his head and kissing him.

“Then you will take the windfall, Edna?”

“I will take it on one condition, father.”

“And what is the one condition?”

“That if I ever do anything you disapprove of, you will let me give it back to you.”

The girl was gazing far out at the line where the blue sky and the bluer sea met. Her father glanced at her sharply for a moment.

“Put into English, what does that mean, Edna?”

“You never can tell what a woman will do, you know.”

“Granted, my dear. But you’re not a woman; you’re merely my little girl.”

The little girl sighed.

“I feel very much grown up, and very old sometimes.”

“Oh, we all do at eighteen. Wait till you’re forty; then you’ll know what real youth is. If you were a boy now, instead of being a girl, you would have serious doubts about the existence of the Deity, and the most gloomy ideas regarding mankind generally. Why should I disapprove of anything you do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Mother always predicts that our stubborn wills will cross some time, and——”

“Of course, of course. And false prophets shall arise. Don’t let that trouble you, Edna. If our wills become seriously opposed, we will come here to the downs and talk it all over. I’ll warrant we’ll hit on a compromise.”

“But suppose a compromise were not possible?”

“Dear me, Edna, what’s on your mind? You are talking in generalities and thinking in particulars. What is it, my girl?”

Edna shook her head.

“I don’t know why it is,” she said at last, “but I feel afraid of the future. It seems so uncertain, and I should never like anything to come between us.”

“Nonsense, Edna. What should come between us? All that is merely a little touch of the pessimism of youth, accentuated by the doleful fact that you are now a woman of independent means. Suppose our stubborn wills come into collision, as you fear, do you know what will happen?”

“What?”

“Well—it’s an awful thing for a father to say to a daughter—but I’ll give way. Think of that! What a humiliating confession for me to make!—a man who has refused to budge an inch before the united demands of some hundreds of men, backed by the pathetic entreaties of my own employers. If that isn’t a victory for a small girl, what is?”

“Oh, no!” cried Edna, her eyes quickly filling. “I’ll give way—I’ll give way—even if it breaks my heart!” Her father stopped in his walk, and grasped her by the shoulders. The girl’s head drooped, and she put one hand over her eyes.

“Ah, Edna, Edna, there’s something at the back of all this; I won’t ask you what it is, my pet, but some day you’ll tell me, perhaps.” He drew her to his breast, and, pushing aside her hat, caressed her fair hair lovingly. “If your mother were alive, dearest, we—well, there is little use of either grieving or wishing. We must make the best of things as they are. But don’t bother about the stubborn wills, Edna; we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. You see, we are both competing to see who shall give way first, and there’s nothing very stubborn about that. Now, my girl, I’ve disarranged that pretty hat, and a stranger who didn’t know might think you had been crying. This will never do. Let us talk sensibly, for I imagine that before long I’ll have all the fighting I need to keep me in form, without having a contest with my only daughter.”

“What do you mean, father?”

“Oh, there’s the usual ferment among the men. They are seething and foaming and vapouring, and I feel it in my bones that we will have another strike before long.”

“Led by Mr. Marsten?”

“By him, of course. But I’ll beat him! I’ll crumple him up so that he will wonder why he ever started the fight. It’s a pity to see him waste his energy and his brains in a hopeless struggle. He’s clever and indefatigable, but a visionary and an enthusiast, and when he stops dreaming of impossibilities he will be a most valuable man.”

“What impossibilities, father?” asked the girl, almost in a whisper, gazing at the ground.

“The impossibility of men hanging together on any one subject for more than a week. The impossibility of warding off treachery within the ranks. The impossibility of keeping down the jealousy which they always feel towards a man who is their evident superior in education and ability. However he got them, Marsten has the manner and instincts of a gentleman. The men are not going to stand that sort of thing, you know, and they will fail him when it comes to a pinch.”

“If you think so well of him, why don’t you offer him a good position in the works, and let him turn his ability towards helping you?”

“My dear girl, you have guessed one of the cards that is up my sleeve. I intend to make Marsten my assistant manager—but not now. He will be a valuable man when he awakes, but not while he is dreaming. He must be taught his lesson first, and only hard knocks can teach him that. The boy thinks he is going to be a leader of men, whereas he is merely serving his apprenticeship to become assistant manager of Monkton & Hope, Limited.”

“But suppose he, succeeds? Suppose the next strike does not fail? The men held together more than a week last time.”

“That was because they were led by a demagogue of like calibre to themselves. There is a large faction among them who hate Marsten, and Gibbons is their leader. I have fought Gibbons, beaten him, insulted him, trampled him under foot, yet, to-day, Gibbons loathes Marsten while he respects me, as such a man always respects one who has knocked him down. Now you will be surprised to hear that I have taken Gibbons into my employ, and am giving him better wages than he has ever received in his life before. More than that, when he recommends a man, I promote that man, and it is getting to be generally understood that Gibbons has much influence with the manager. This strengthens his hold on his faction.”

“And what will be the result?”

“That we cannot tell, but it is always good politics to promote a split in the ranks of the enemy. I am playing a game, and I move the pawns about to suit my board. There is a sharp line now cleft between the two factions, and the gap will widen as soon as the trouble begins. Gibbons will likely go out with his crowd, if a strike is ordered; but they will be a source of weakness rather than of strength to Marsten, and the moment he makes a false move—which he is reasonably certain to make, not being infallible—there will be a defection.”

“Have you a secret understanding with Gibbons, then?”

“Oh, bless you, no! One doesn’t have a discussion on moves with a pawn. The pawn produces certain effects merely because it is placed in a given position, and not through any will of its own. Now Marsten is quite well aware of Gibbons’s supposed influence with me, and will likely commit the error of thinking I have some arrangement with the ex-secretary. In the heat of a discussion he may give voice to his belief, and that will be an error, for no man is so righteously indignant at such a charge as the virtuous individual who would have sold himself if he could. It’s going to be an interesting struggle, Edna.”

“Poor Marsten!” sighed the girl.

“Yes, I am sorry for Marsten myself, but the lesson will do him a world of good. He is thoroughly unselfish, and Gibbons is as thoroughly selfish. The unselfish man almost invariably goes to the wall in this self-seeking world. Now let us get back, my girl. I think your old father has settled the whole universe to his satisfaction, so there’s no more to be said.”

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