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.
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: