The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 47, 23 November 1905, Page 23

The Storyteller

HIS TWO CHILDREN

I. ' Will you please advance me £5 on— my violin ? ' Jacob Moneypenny eyed his customer curiously, and then gave a contemptuous glance at the instrument the old man had laid upon the counter for his inspection. ' Not in my line,' he said, adding quickly, ' those sort of things are a drug on the market ; you can pick 'em up by the dozen for an old song.' ' But, not like this, sir,' the old man patted his violin affectionately ; ' not like this. It is the only one of its kind in the world, the only one.' Moneypenny was touched. In a general way he was a hard, unsusceptible business man ; but there was a something so indescribably pathetic in the man's voice, appearance, and manner, and, despite himself, he felt more than inclined to help him if he could do so without incurring any risk of ultimate loss. lie reflected for a moment. ' How much is the fiddle worth ?' he demanded at length. ' More than £200,' was the startling reply, ' and I wouldn't let any one else have it but that I am ill and starving. Perhaps you know my name. I am Angus Chelsea, the violinist.' The pawnbroker shook his head decisively. ' I don't know much either of music or musicians,' he said, ' except in the way of business. Some of them arc regular customers of mine. I can't recall your face. Have you been here before ? ' ' Never. Hitherto I have always managed to keep my head above water. A long illness brought me down to this.' ' Oh, I shouldn't look at it in that way,' returned Moneypenny brightly ; 'it doesn't at all follow that because folks come here they're on the rocks. There's a host of people who want a temporary accommodation who prefer having it from me than troubling their acquaintances.' ' That maybe,' said Chelsea sadly ; but it isn't the case with me. I'd rather have borrowed money from a thousand friends than have parted with this,' and he again touched the instrument with a lingering fondness. ' But, you see, I haven't any friends that would help me,' he went on. ' I never made many of them. When I led the orchestra at the Rosberry Opera House I was a bit proud and standoffish, and the others didn't seem to like me. There were only two beings that I cared about in the whole world — my daughter Madge and my violin.' ' I see,' said the pawnbroker sympathetically, ' and one of them — your daughter— is dead.' ' No, no, no My daughtci is not dead , at least, I don't think so. I rTopc not. You see, sir, I was ambitious for her. She was beautiful, beautiful,' his voice faltered, 'as her mother was before her, and I had taught her, and she had what you call genius. I kept her to myself, watched over her tenderly, guarded her jealously. But I ought to have been more careful ; I ought to have foreseen.' 1 And what happened 9 ' asked the pawnbroker softly. He was a father and felt interested. 'In an unfortunate moment I brought one of my players home with me. He was the second violin, and could play as well as his conductor, which, if you will forgive me for saying it, was something to be proud of. lie met my Madge ; they fell in love with each other, and pleaded with me for permission to marry. I refused it peremptorily, and told my daughter that if 1 heard her utter another word of such nonsense I would turn her out of the house and refuse thenceforth to recognise her as my child Little did I imagine what were to be the terrible consequences of my hasty words A week later my second violin disappeared from noplace in the orchestra, and when I returned home that night there was no little girl waiting to welcome her father's return home.' ' And you have never seen her since 9 ' Chelsea shook his head dolefully ' You may he sure,' he said, ' that I set inquiries afoot, advertised nx the newspapers, did all that was possible to find her, but not a trace could I discover. Then trouble came upon me. I was stricken with illness and compelled to icsign my position at the opera house. The few pounds I had saved speedily vanished, and now — ' he jerked a hand toward the instrument. 1 Well, I make it a rule not, to accept such securities,' said Moneypenny, after a moment's silent consi-

deration; 'they're risky, and not in my line. But if you don't mind waiting and will allow me to take your fiddle to a gentleman; who lives close by to test its worth, I'll see—' ' You'll be very, very careful with it ? ' asked Chelsea anxiously. ' Oh, it'll be all right in my hands. You wait where you are a few minutes, and I'll soon let you know what I am prepared to do for you.* Moneypcnny replaced the instrument in the green baize bag from which it had been taken, and,, thrusting it under his arm, went out by a side door. He proceeded a little way down the street, turned a corner, and presently stopped before a door, the brass nameplate on which bore the inscription, ' Belbank Mansions.' In one of the flats comprising these mansions resided Panini, the great solo violinist, with whom Moneypenny^ had some sort of distant acquaintance. Having ascertained from the lift attendant that M. Panini was at home, he wrote on the back of a visiting card : ' Have violin supposed to be valuable and would like you to see it.' This secured him immediate admission to the presence of the great performer, who was always on the lookout for really good instruments. 'Is that the viohn you refer to here ? ' asked Panini, who spoke with a slightly foreign accent. He tapped his visitor's card with his long, nervous, impatient fingers and nodded in the direction of the green baize bag, which Moneypenny still kept under his arm. Yes,' assented the pawnbroker ; ' it has just been brought to my place— you know me, of course ? ' Panini nodded. 'An old musician. I— l really forget his namewants £5 upon it. He says it is worth £200, and if you will be good enough to tell me, for I am no musician, and—' ' Let me see it,' Panini was a man of few words. He took it somewhat carelessly into his hands, turned it over and over, tapped it and ran his fingers across the strings. The tone pleased him. He screwed up the strings, reached a bow from a case that lay open upon the table, and began to play. A rich flood of notes poured from the instrument. Moneypenny, utterly untrained in matters musical though he was, stood like one spellbound. Starting with a minor prelude, low and mournful, the gifted player burst suddenly into a jubilant march. In Panim's hands the instrument as if it had suddenly become possessed of a human soul. It wept, laughed, rejoiced, and again died away with a notq of mexpiessible sadness. ' This instrument, you say, has been offered to you?' demanded Panini. ' Yes— as security ' ' And how much docs the man who owns it want ? ' ' Fi\e pounds ; I suppose it is worth that ? ' Panini laughed scornfully. ' Worth five pounds !' he exclaimed ' I would give twenty, forty, fifty times as much for it here at this moment. Will your customer sell it to me 7 ' Moneypenny shook his head. ' I'm sure he won't,' he replied. 'He values it too highly. One would almost think it were made of gold and studded with diamonds.' ' (Jold and diamonds ! ' rejoined Panini, sarcastically, ' just as though gold and diamonds were the only things in the world worth having. Ah ! you can get gold and diamonds almost everywhere so long as you can pay for Ihem, but tone, volume, soul— bah ! I tell you I would rather have a thing like this '—he held up Chelsea's violin—' than all the gold and diamonds in the world ' But, tell me, can I see the man ? ' ' I'm afraid not. It wouldn't be business. But, seeing you've been so kind as to value the fiddle, I don't mind letting you know in strict confidence— in the strictest confidence, mind you— the man's name and address. Then, so long as I don't appear in it, you can do as you like about it.' Upon his return Moneypenny found Chelsea anxiously awaiting him. ' You may have your £5,' said the pawnbroker shortly. ' Thank you And you will be very careful of my violin ? ' returned ChvJsea. ' Oh, that'll be all right,' said the pawnbroker reaching a contract picket. ' Your name and address, please 7 ' he inquired. ' My name '' ' repeated the old man reflectively. He had been thinking matters over, and had come to the conclusion that he had better, if i( were possible, giv c .some other name than his own. It was the first visit of his life to a pawnbroker's, and he was ashamed of the transaction. ' Angus Marshall,' he went on, of 27 Melville street.'

Moneypenny looked up. ' That was not the name you gave before,' he commented, ' though it doesn't matter a great deal. I suppose you intend to redeerm it ? ' 'Of course I do,' said Chelsea petulantly. 'My violin is dearer to me than life itself. You'll be careful of it, sir ? Promise me, on your word as a gentleman, promise me.' Scarcely heeding the pawnbroker's ready assurance, he bent over the instrument that still rested on the counter and kissed it tenderly. ' Adieu, old friend,' he said, ' adieu. We shall not long be parted. You will soon be with me again ; yes, soon — very, boon.'

11. Three months later. In the rush and tear of business Moneypenny had almost forgotten Chelsea and his violin. Once he had gone beyond the strict limitations of his peculiar calling and had lent the instrument to Panini for an evening performance. It was not exactly right, and he had required a good deal of persuading. But ha* had been proud to do a favor to the famous musician, and had taken the risk. Of course, everything turned out all right. The morning after the concert the instrument was brought back again by, Panini himself, and was now resting on the shelf, where it awaited the coming of its owner if he saw fit to redeem, it ; if not, well there was the prospect of a speedy sale. Such a treasure was not likely to remain long without a purchaser. lie almost even hoped that the old man would not return in time , then Panini could have it at a price that would leave a good margin of profit. There was little likelihood of the owner putting in any claim after the twelve months had gone by. For once Moneypenny 's calculations were wide of the mark. Angus Chelsea did come to redeem his violin. Moneypenny recognised him at once. ' I see you have come for your precious fiddle,' he said with a smile. 1 Didn't I tell you I would ? ' returned Chelsea. 1 And haven't I been longing to have it in my hands again ? I knew it must reproach me for letting it be so long away from me. But what could I do, sir ? I was poor, penniless, and without a friend. True, I have other violins, but they are low, common, worthless. But now, sir, let me feel my little friend in my arms once more.' He stretched out his arms eagerly, and his face flashed with expectation. ' I hope you have been having better luck,' said Moneypenny, who was not a little curious as to ihow his customer managed to ' raise the wind.' ' Peihaps you have heard of your daughter,' he added, Hnnking that in this way the man's unexpected reappearance might be accounted for. 1 I have heard nothing of her, sir, thank you for inquiring,' returned the musician ; and I have almost given up hoping about her. It is so long ago, it is years, years since she left me. I ha\e some friend, though. I don't know who he can be. It was some one who knew my wife. lie has sent letters to me addressed by her maiden name, " Marshall " , that is the name I gave you, sir, when I parted with my little friend First came a postal order for ten shillings, then another for a sovereign, and a similar sum has come to me every week. From these sunh, smt to me by sonic unknown benefactor, I have managed to sa^'C enough to redeem my violin. 1 have lived spanngly ; my needs are not many, sir.' ' You have no idea, I suppose, to whom you owe this kindness ? ' asked Moneypenny. ' Not that it is any business, of mine, but I feel interested in you and am or.lv too glad to hear that you arc getting on so well.' ' I haven't the slightest notion,' said Chelsea. ' The money has come by post, and is wrapped in a -.iioet of ord' t mv nctepaper. Sometimes I fancy it comes fiom a relitive of my late wife. They didn't Ireat icr ever well when .--lie g<M married to me. I was a .-aruggiing niis'c-.-tn i .mi, an! they thought me \ery much bei.' ai li h-r 'I hen vhci I had risen a bit they seemed l<> fee! a trifle asli'iiieif oi themselves' and held aloof. Now t at lamin a bit of trouble maybe they want to make things light and atone for their early neglect. But this morning I've got another bit of good news. A man who used to be under me, and has gone up as I have gone down, has oiTeied me a seat for to-morrow night. He is providing a small orchestra to play at Panini's grpat concert in tho Queen's Hall — ' ' Panini ' ' ejaculated Monevpenny. ' Yes ; the great Panini. Do you know him f ' ' Quite well— intimately. lie is a very dear friend of mine,' said the pawnbroker, who was not unwilling to appear in the light of a personal fnend of the man of whom all London was talking.

' Well, lam to take a part— though it is only a humble part— at his concert to-morrow. Had it not been for that I am afraid I should have had to leave my violin with you a little while longer. And now, sir, if you will be kind enough to tell me how much is due to you I will pay it, and then you can give me back my violin.' He handed over the contract ticket and gave Moneypenny the amount owing. The pawnbroker retired'to an inner room and in a very short time returned, carrying the green baize bag in his arms. ' There, Mr. Marshall,' he said, addressing his customer by the name that appeared upon the contract ticket, ' you can take your fiddle, and I hope that you won't find yourself in such a tight corner any more. If you do, and like to entrust your little friend with me again, I am sure that I shall be only too glad to do business with you.' The musician thanked him mechanically, the while opening the bag which covered his most treasured possession. He drew out the instalment, looked at it, turned it over in his hands and then laid it on the counter. ' You have made a mistake, sir,' he said quietly. ' This is not my violin. 1 ' What ? ' cried Moneypenny, the red blood surging up into his face. 'Do you mean to say that— that— ' His indignation could find no adequate expression in words, and he stopped abruptly. ' I mean to say that this thing,' Chelsea gave a contemptuous nod at the instrument, ' is not the violin I brought to you a little over three months ago. It is like it ; so much like it that anyone who did not really know might be deceived ; but I tell you that it is not the same. You must have brought the wrong instrument.' ' Nonsense, nonsense,' cried the pawnbroker contemptuously. ' I told you before that I didn't deal in such things. Yours is the only one I have upon the premises.' ' But this— this is not mine,' persisted Chelsea. ' You have made a mistake. Please look again, sir, and you will find that what I am saying is true.' Moneypenny was nettled at the man's pertinacity. ' Do you know what it is you are accusing me of ? ' he demanded indignantly. ' Fraud, deception, theft. You must have taken leave of your senses to talk as you are doing. I tell you there is your fiddle, so take it and be off with you.' ' Then I tell you that it is not mine.' The old man grew suddenly angry. ' This— this '—he took it into his hands and brought it crashing down upon the counter, where it lay splintered and broken—' this is a copy, a fraud, a forgery ! ' Then he broke down. 'My violin, where arc you 9 Oh, where arc you, my loved one 9 ' he cried ' Why did I e\er let you go from me? Why did I trust you away from me ? ' 1 I repeat that is the instrument you pledged with me,' said Moneypenny. 'It must be. Why, it has never been out of my custody for a single hour ' ' Then he remembered that "he had lent it to Panini, and a terrible suspicion entered his brain and took possession of it The great \iolinis< had admired the instrument. Was it possible that he had stolen it and returned a worthless substitute? Of course it would not have been polite for him to have mentioned his suspicion to Chelsea, and, leaving the discarded instrument on the table, the broken-hear-ted old man, weeping bitterly, returned to his home. Child and violin both were now gone from him.

in. The Queen's Hall, capacious as it was, was crowded to its utmost, capacity. Panini's name had proved irresistible. But Panini was not. the only attraction. Another gifted artist was on the programme— a lady whose fame was scarcely less than Panini, Miss Mollic Wentworth. Like Panini, she had long been before the public, and her fame, hkn his, showed no signs of diminishing The audience was composed of listeners who knew and appreciated good music. Any perioimance of works that were not strictly classical, as well as any variation from the lules affecting strictly accurate playing, would be received, if not with expressed disapprobation, at least in chilling and equally significant silence. The members of the orchestra" had been carefully selected. Each one of them was known personally to the conductor, who lclt that the great soloists could rely upon them They were trained musicians. There had only been one rehearsal, which had taken place in the absence of the principals ; but the leader had assured himself that the part of the concert for which he himself was responsible would be well performed.

They took their places some ten minutes before the programme was timed to open. Somehow Angus Chelsea felt nervous and ill at ease. For one thing, it was long since he had played in public, but what affected him still more deeply was the loss of his violin. He had another instrument with him, and was quite equal to making excellent use of it. But it was so different to the one that had gone from him. He looked worn and worried. His leader noticed it and, bending down, asked him if he was ill, and if he felt equal to the task before him.' ' Yes, yes,' he whispered back, somewhat petulantly the conductor thought. ' Have no fear. I shall get through all right.' The conductor was reassured. JTis momentary misgivings were dispelled. The waiting minutes sped. The hour of commencement struck. The conductor tapped his desk lightly with his baton. A spontaneous outburst of applause greeted the end of the first number. It was a selection from Wagner, and was performed, as one of the critics present testified, ' without a blemish, and in style that was after the heart of the great master himself.' The following piece was a duet, in which the two ' stars ' were to appear together. The orchestra was playing a low? prelude when Panini and Molly Wentworth appeared. They received a warm welcome from an audience that was not usually so demonstrative. Then they comimenced to play, the one the violin, the other the 'cello. A few sweet, clear, thrilling notes floated into the air and through the vast hall. Silence itself was hushed. The vast audience listened like one entranced. A low, running accompaniment was maintained by the orchestra. But something was wrong ; so much was evident from the attention of the conductor. He was staring fiercely at one of the members of his orchestra. ' Chelsea,' he muttered savagely. ' what are you doing ? Have you gone mad ! ' The old musician heard not, heeded not. He drew his bow mechanically across the strings, and then let it fall from his nervous fingers. No one save the leader and the players around him observed it. The audience was 100 intent upon the two players on the platform to pay any attention to one of the lesser performers, and the duet continued without interruption. No sooner, however, had the last notes died away, and before the listeners could burst into their tribute of applause, than a man sprang excitedly from his place in the orchestra below, and with a bound gained the platform. 'My daughter • My violin ' Both of them mine ! ' he cried, and fell unconscious to the floor. It was some houis before he came to himself, and then he opened his eyes in unfamiliar surroundings His poor, dark, ill-furnished room had given place to a. cheeifully-hghted apartment, beating every appeal ance of comfort that love could suggest or wealth was. able to supply. ' Where am I ? What has happened ?' he gasped faintly 'Father ! ' — a fair form was bending o\er him— ' I am Madge, your daughter. This l.s home.' ' Home, home ''" he repeated, resting with lingering fondness on the word. Then memory returned to him. ' I have got you. My daughter has come back to me, but my other child— my violin — ' lls here ' She held it out to him, and he took it lovingly in his hands and kissed it tcndeily. ' Panini, my husband, took it,' she went on. ' He was sorely tempted ; he did not know.' ' But Panini — he did not take you away from me. It was my second violin — ' ' And your second violin was Panini. That is the name in which he has found fame and fortune. You must forgive him, father, this one sin.' The old man tell back exhausted. Presently he called Madge by name and she came to him at once. ' He has got one of my children,' he said faintly ; give him Ihe other ' lie pointed to his violin, and she understood. — 'Leeds Mercury '