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.”