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.”