And he would have
to find three thousand pounds down to meet the demand on his credit
immediately.
Nevitt hadn't three thousand pounds in the world to pay. The little
he possessed beyond his salary was locked up, here and there, in
speculative undertakings, where he couldn't touch it except at long
notice. It was a crushing blow. He had need of steadying. Some
men would have flown in such a plight to brandy. Montague Nevitt
flew, instead, to the consolations of music.
For some minutes, indeed, he paced his room up and down in solemn
silence. Then his eye fell by accident on the violin case in the
corner. Ah, that would do! That beloved violin would inspire him
with ideas; was it suicide or fraud? or some honest way out: be
it this plan or that the violin would help him. Screwing up the
strings for a minute with those deft, long, double-jointed fingers
of his, he took the bow in his right hand, and, still pacing the
room with great strides, like a wild beast in its cage, began to
discourse low passionate music to himself from one of those serpentine
pieces of Miss Ewes's of Leamington.
As he played and played, his whole soul in his fingers, a plan
began to frame itself, vaguely, dimly at first, then more and more
definitely by slow degrees--shape, form, and features--as it grew
and developed.
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