“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.