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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
against it. I think that is all that can be asked of me or any other
man present.”
The motion was seconded and carried unanimously, and the
object for which the meeting was convened was lost sight of entirely.
Marsten went on with his work of organization, and met with
much encouragement from the societies with which he entered into
correspondence. Whatever opposition there was to him in his own
Union, it at least did not show itself openly; but Marsten did not
make the mistake of thinking Gibbons was his friend.
 CHAPTER XXX.

I
ngenious 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 tragic
rôle he 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.
 CHAPTER XXXI.

I
t 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.
 CHAPTER XXXII.

I
t 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.
 CHAPTER XXXIII.

T
he 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.”
 CHAPTER XXXIV.

T
he year’s work had been most encouraging to Marsten. He had
come to a cordial understanding with many of the Unions, not
only at home, but in America and the colonies, and had
formed an active alliance with several societies of workingmen in the
United Kingdom. Times were good, business brisk, and
comparatively few men were out of employment. All this inspired
confidence in the success of a strike, for the demands of men are
more certain to be listened to with attention when the market is
rising than when it is falling. There would now be much difficulty in
filling the shops with competent hands, as employment was more
general throughout the country than had been the case for years
before.
Marsten had been secretary of the Union for eighteen months
before he made up his mind to begin the contest. He resolved to
make a demand for a ten per cent increase of wages all round, and,
if it were refused, to call out the men at once. The committee met in
secret session and the demand was formulated. A gathering of the
men was ordered for Saturday night, but the subject to be discussed
was not stated. Marsten impressed on his committee the necessity
for secrecy, although Gibbons, who was one of the members, said he
failed to see the object of this, as their desire was to obtain the
increase, and that desire could not be attained except openly.
However, he added, Marsten was conducting the campaign, and it
was but right he should be allowed to conduct it in his own way;
therefore Gibbons merely stated his objection but did not insist upon
it.
A deputation was appointed to seek an interview with the
directors and make the demand on Saturday afternoon. After their
conference they were to draw up a report to present to the meeting
of the men.
On Friday Sartwell gathered his employees together and
announced to them that, in view of the state of business, the
company had voluntarily come to the conclusion that an increase of
wages to the extent of ten per cent should be given, adding that he
hoped the amicable relations between employers and employed at
the works would long continue. This announcement was received
with cheers, and the workers, who knew nothing of the meeting of
the committee, dispersed well satisfied with the outlook.
It was too late to countermand the gathering ordered for Saturday
night, and when it took place some inkling of what had happened
was spread abroad; the general opinion being that in some way
Marsten had been too clever by half, and had met with an
unexpected check.
The young man, however, faced the meeting in good fettle, and
congratulated them on the increase offered. The men were in
jubilant humour, and they cheered everything that was said with the
utmost impartiality. Marsten told them frankly why the meeting had
been called, and he exulted in the fact that the recent unexpected
turn of events had made any discussion unnecessary.
“I have heard it hinted,” he continued, “that I have been out-
generalled by Mr. Sartwell, but we can stand a lot of beating on
these lines. Mr. Sartwell is evidently afraid of the Union now. If the
mere rumour that we were about to make a demand induces so stiff-
necked a man as the manager to capitulate before a gun is fired, it
goes to show the tremendous influence we can wield by all standing
firmly together.”
It is said that the misplacing of a comma in an act of Parliament
once cost the country a hundred thousand pounds. The one word
“now,” spoken quite unthinkingly by Marsten, made Gibbons grind
his teeth in helpless rage. He saw Marsten triumphant and his own
administration discredited. He determined to make that small word
of three letters cost Marsten dear, if an opportunity of upsetting the
confident young man offered itself. However, Gibbons said nothing,
and the meeting dispersed with cheers.
Sartwell had no delusion regarding the advance he had made the
men. He knew he had merely postponed the fight, but he wanted to
be in a position to show the directors that he had done everything
possible to avoid a conflict. Six months later Sartwell called the
directors together.
“I desire to place before you,” he said, “certain information I have
received. There is reason to believe that a further demand of ten per
cent will be made. If you are going to grant it, I would like to know;
if we are going to make a stand, I would like to know. I will then
arrange my plans accordingly.”
“If we grant it,” said Mr. Hope, “what do you think will be the
result? Will it avert trouble, or will it be made the basis of fresh
exactions? We cannot go on making concessions indefinitely.”
“Giving the increase will probably postpone the trouble for another
six months. I am certain that Marsten wants to force on a fight; he
has been preparing for more than two years. What I want to impress
on you is that the struggle, when it comes, is going to be a severe
one, and if you enter upon it, you must do so with your eyes open,
resolved to fight it to the very end. You may go on conceding until
wages are doubled, and every fresh concession will merely make an
ultimate fight the more inevitable.”
“Then you think we had better make a stand now?”
“Yes; if, having made the stand, you refuse to capitulate on any
terms.”
“But if we find, when the strike has lasted a few weeks, that we
cannot hold out, it would be folly to continue.”
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