A Little World

Poor Jared! he is head of the Austin Friars establishment, but he is afraid of the manager there, and slinks guardedly in and out. He goes every other day, because his son-in-law wishes it; but Jared is always very nervous, and fancies that the manager looks down upon him, because he comes up every Sunday from Highgate to play St Runwald’s organ, and afterwards eat a modest chop in Fleet Street with Canau, who generally has been with him to help him with the stops.

The scenes come quickly now across the face of the mirror – scenes of grey old men smoking long pipes, and playing cribbage or whist at Harry’s place, or at Jared’s home; of life’s downward course made smoother for many by the heaped-up wealth that Jared inherits; of old Timson standing before the organist, with hands beneath his coat-tails, and a frown upon his brow, though there is an odd twinkle in his eye as he points to a deficiency in the poor-box, reproached the while by the vicar, who goes with the churchwarden to empty the boxes upon the very next day, to find that deficiency is amply made up.

No glance at mirror now, but a long gaze from a seat at the reality. There is the faint glow from behind the curtain; the softened tones are pealing and quivering in the air as they float round the darkened church. The music is sweet but sad, and the soft strains thrill as they sound funereal – dirge-like. Is it the touch of Jared? The tall golden pipes stand up ray-like, and they quiver in the glow. The hour is late, the streets are getting hushed, and the solemnity of the place seems oppressive, aided as it is in its influence upon the senses by the wailing strains that sob through the air.

Silence for awhile, and the sense of oppression more heavy; but now once more come the swelling softened tones of the grand old instrument – strains wild and extemporised – music that is almost palpable, as it flows current-like through nave, aisles, and chancel – sad music, solemn strains – and then once more silence.

A strange thrill now, but only for an instant, of jarring pain; for the old clock chimes the hour, and each lapse of time is beaten out upon bell-rim by a ponderous hammer, and the lumbering old machinery is set to work by its weights, and hammers out a mutilated version of the Old Hundredth Psalm, before the clicking, grinding works stand still, and the brazen clangour dies away.

Then comes the organ again, in a sweet strain from some flute-like stop, from where the faint light rises in a halo, like the herald of the rising of some great orb of sound. And now come, in a powerful crescendo, strains loud and deep, then higher and higher, till the glorious fugue culminates in a mighty burst of harmony, poured forth by the instrument’s full power, but only to die away in distant mutterings as of thunder, from the deep-toned pedal pipes; for the practice is at an end.

That was Jared Pellet’s touch – that was the old organist, fettered by no ten-minute edicts of old tea-dealing Timson; that was Jared, rising on the wings of his music far away from earth; and now, as the last muttering peal of softened thunder dies away, the faint light is shining upon the bent grey head of my old friend.

The End