CHAPTER II.
The next morning was clear and bright. It was one of those mornings that sometimes come in February to tell even Londoners that spring has really started on her journey northward, and that she may be expected to arrive some time soon.
The sun shone, a fresh, but not cold, wind blew from the south-west, hurrying the soft golden clouds across the sky, and the sparrows had actually begun their spring quarrels.
The Professor, contrary to his usual habit, took no notice of these nice things. He felt very old and weary as he set off on his journey to the city with the same undefined feeling of misfortune that had haunted him all night.
He went straight to the stockbroker's office, expecting simply to have to sign a paper or two, receive his quarterly cheque for £6 5s., cash it at the bank, and then go quietly home again. He was surprised when the clerk asked him to sit down.
“I think Mr. Surtees wants to see you, Mr. Crowitzski,” he said, more politely than usual. “He will be disengaged in a few minutes, if you don't mind waiting. Oh, he's ready now”—as an electric bell rang three times.
The old man followed the clerk upstairs to the first floor, where they paused outside a door marked “Private.” The clerk knocked softly.
“Come in,” said a voice, and the clerk ushered the Professor into his master's presence.
“Good morning, Professor Crowitzski!” said the stockbroker cheerily. “Come and sit down by the fire. You look cold. It's a fresh morning, though the wind is sou'-west!”
He drew a leather-covered arm-chair forward as he spoke, gently pushed the Professor into it, and stationed himself on the hearthrug with his back to the fire and his hands behind his back.
He was a fresh-faced, kindly-looking man of middle age, with humorous grey eyes, and gold spectacles, which gave him a benevolent expression. He had undertaken the management of the poor Professor's small investment for many years out of pure kindness of heart after hearing his tragic history from a common friend, since dead; but he had a task this morning that he did not relish.
“Have you seen to-day's paper?” he began, looking keenly at his client.
“No,” said the Professor. “I do not often see the paper. Is there any special news?”
“Well—er—yes, I think so. News of some importance to a good many people, I'm afraid.”
The old man looked up in a mildly inquiring way, and the stockbroker continued—
“Fact is, those beastly South Americans are kicking up a row amongst themselves again—quarrelsome beggars! They can't keep themselves quiet for long! And the worst of it is, they disturb us peaceful citizens here who only wish to lend them money to get on with!”
A faint expression of interest began to dawn in the Professor's face.
“I suppose,” he said, “you mean that the money market is influenced by this kind of thing. Does it make any difference to my little income?”
Mr. Surtees turned round and poked the fire vigorously—an unnecessary proceeding; but the sight of that mild old face, and the knowledge of what he had to say, made it imperative that he should relieve his feelings somehow.
“It's hard on the poor old chap,” he muttered to himself. “But it can't be helped!”
He straightened himself, looked at his client, then out of the window, then into the fire.
“Well, Professor,” he said slowly, “I am very sorry to say that all South American stocks and securities are very low in the market just now—in short, some of them have gone altogether. Clean gone!”
Professor Crowitzski sat upright in his chair. A mist seemed to float before his eyes; his heart began to beat as if it would choke him. He felt as if the room were spinning round, and he grasped the arms of the chair tightly to try to steady himself. When, after a few moments, he spoke, his voice sounded faint and far away.
“And—and—my—money?” he gasped, with pauses between each word.
John Surtees looked down into the fire and gave his head a little shake.
“Is it all gone?” said the old man in a kind of breathless voice.
There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the cries of the paper boys in the street. Then the stockbroker turned round.
“I am exceedingly sorry to have to tell you,” he said, speaking rather hurriedly. “It is all gone, and there is no help for it. No one—nothing could have saved it; the panic was too sudden and too violent. If I could have done anything, I would; but it was hopeless. It is hard—very hard—not only on you, but on lots of other people too. Not that that's much consolation to you!”
The Professor sat perfectly still, as if turned to stone, gazing straight into the fire, but seeing nothing. He was so still and silent that Mr. Surtees began to feel alarmed as to the possible results of the shock. He moved a step forward and gently laid his hand on the old man's shoulder.
“Look here, Professor,” he said kindly, “don't take it so much to heart; your friends will be sure to look after you. If I can be of any service to you in the way of a little loan for present use—no hurry as to repayment, you know, just as between friends—I shall be most happy, most happy.”
The poor Professor drew a long breath and looked up into his face with a vacant, unseeing expression in his eyes as of one struck blind.
“Friends!” he said slowly and brokenly. “My friends are long dead. I have no one left.”
He attempted to rise, but the stockbroker pressed him down again.
“Don't hurry away,” he said. “Stop here and rest a bit. You won't be in my way. I'm going to give you a small brandy and soda—capital thing for you just now.”
He went across the room to get it out of a cupboard near the window and was taking the stopper out of the little brandy decanter when the sound of the Professor's voice arrested him. He had risen from the big arm-chair and stood in the middle of the room, leaning heavily on his stick.
“I cannot take it,” he said, more firmly than he had yet spoken. “I cannot take it! It is years since I tasted wine or spirits, and my head is not clear enough. I must go home to rest and think—if I can.”
He moved towards the door, and the stockbroker saw it was useless to try to detain him. However, he made one more little effort.
“You'll let me advance you five pounds for the present, at any rate,” he said, “just as a matter of convenience, you know, till we can think what can be done for you.”
The old man shook his head.
“I thank you for your kindly thought,” he said; “but I do not at present see how I am to raise money to repay you. I have always kept out of debt, and I am too old to work.”
“Oh, never mind, never mind! Don't trouble yourself about that,” began the other, but a look of such determination came back to the old man's face that he thought it unwise to press the matter further, and continued, “Well, we'll speak of that some other time. You'll always find me here and glad to see you. Can you manage to get home all right? Shall one of my clerks go with you?”
But the Professor strenuously refused all offers of help, so Mr. Surtees had to be contented with seeing his aged client downstairs himself. And he stood for a moment watching his feeble progress down the narrow court that led into busy Broad Street.
“Poor old chap!” he said to himself. “No wonder he is hard hit if that was his whole living. I wonder why he always would keep it in those South American stocks?” And he returned to his own room, feeling dissatisfied with everything in general and the money market in particular.
Professor Crowitzski got back to his little room in Green Street rather before one. He sat down in his old chair near the fireplace, leaned back, and closed his eyes with a sense of weariness and despair that made him half wish the end might come then and there. He was utterly crushed by the weight of his misfortune, and he felt quite unable to think of any means by which he might be able to live out the small remnant of his life outside the workhouse.
He had not taken off his old Inverness cloak, and as he put his hands into the deep pockets to try to get them a little warm he felt a folded sheet of paper. He drew it out mechanically and looked at it absently; it was the programme for the next Monday's concert.
Instantly his whole mental attitude changed. Music, the ruling passion and great love of his whole life, asserted itself once more. Cold, hunger, the need of money, the workhouse, and starvation, all faded from his mind, and he was in the world of glorious sound.
What a fine programme! Quartett, Beethoven in E minor, Op. 59. Ah, what a beauty that was, with the glorious Adagio that no one could play like Joachim. Ballade in F, Chopin: he glanced at his piano and smiled. Who had ever written for the piano as an instrument like Chopin? Songs by Schubert, divinest of song writers, and—last and best, the Clarinet Quintett of Brahms. That would be a feast. His eyes shone as he went to his pile of music and fished out a little well-worn volume of Beethoven's Quartetts and a book of Schubert's songs. Then he went back to his chair to enjoy himself for the afternoon, quite oblivious of the fact that he had had no dinner. But the strain of the morning had been too great, combined with the want of proper food: the sight and mental sound of the music soothed him, though he could not long respond to its stimulus. Little by little his head drooped, and he sank into a gentle sleep.
When he woke it was dusk and he bethought himself of some tea. The old music spell was still on him, but he remembered with a shiver the events of the morning. He realised that he must see how much money he really possessed, and calculate how long it would last; but he made up his mind, should it be much or little, one shilling of it must be saved for that concert.
He found he had ten shillings and a few coppers, five shillings being due to his landlady for rent and sundries, and with the rest he would have to live till Monday. He remembered that he should see Herbert Maxwell then or on Tuesday, and he might be able to help him to something.
On the Monday he was at St. James's Hall at seven o'clock, but it took him much longer than usual to climb the gallery stairs. He had to stop to get his breath several times on the way up, and when he reached his seat he could only sink down into it, close his eyes and remain in a state of half stupor till the music began. He had not even the energy to look round for Herbert, who, however, did not come.
The first notes of the Quartett roused him to his general state of keen, nervous, interest; indeed it seemed to him that his musical perceptions were more sensitive than usual, and he felt as if he were some fine instrument that was being played on, that throbbed and vibrated in response to every chord sounded by the players on the platform.
The performance of the Brahms Quintett was a magnificent one, led by that great German clarinet player Mühlfeld, who comes to England too seldom; and at its close the players received an ovation in which the Professor joined with all his old fire and energy: he felt quite strong and himself again.
It was not until he got out of his omnibus that he realised his weakness. It was a bitter night, with a strong north-east wind blowing, bringing with it blinding showers of sleet and hail, though the moon shone brightly between the storms. A furious gust almost blew the frail old man off his feet as he alighted, and the icy air made him gasp painfully for breath, and pierced through his worn clothing to his bones as he crawled slowly to the door of No. 9.
He dragged himself wearily up to his room; his body felt numbed and sluggish, but his brain was still vibrating with the music he had just heard. He threw his hat and stick on the bed and sank down into the little chair beside it: he must rest a little before undressing; no need to light the lamp, the moon would break through directly—she always shone into his room.
Ah, that Brahms Quintett! What a heavenly thing it was. He could hear it still; how haunting the Adagio with its mournful, pleading melody, and then that wild fantasia for the clarinet—why—surely they are playing it in the room beneath. Yes, there can be no mistaking the tone of the clarinet, no one but Mühlfeld can play like that. Louder and louder grows the passionate strain, like some agonised cry, with the dull wailing of the muted strings beneath it. The sound fills the whole house—louder and still louder.
“Yes, sir, the Perfesser is at 'ome, sir, though I don't rightly know if 'e's got up yet,” said a plump, kindly-faced woman in answer to Herbert Maxwell's question the next morning. “My daughter took 'is milk up at nine o'clock and he wasn't movin' then. Will you walk up, sir? Top floor on the right 'and.”
Herbert went gaily upstairs. He felt in exuberant spirits. Things had gone well with him beyond his wildest dreams. His career was pretty well assured. The great singing master had undertaken to make himself responsible for his Academy fees, to find him means of earning money during his years of study and to help him in every possible way. Professor Crowitzski's five pounds had not been needed, and Herbert had it with him to return to the old man.
He knocked softly at the door without receiving any answer, so he knocked again a little louder, and yet again; but all was still.
“He must sleep soundly,” thought Herbert, “or——”
A sudden cold fear shot through him, and he opened the door and looked in.
The Professor was dressed in his ordinary clothes and Inverness, and sitting on the low wooden chair at the head of his bed, which had not been slept in. His right arm was flung across the pillow, his head rested on his arm, his left hand lay on his knee.
At the first glance Herbert thought he was asleep, but the stillness of the figure and the marble whiteness of the face filled him with an awful dread. He went swiftly across the room and gently touched his old friend's hand, only to find the dread was a reality: he was too late.
[THE END.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]
