“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.”