The Orange-Yellow Diamond | Page 2

money and his stomach of food. He had spent his last penny on the
previous day: it, and two other coppers, had gone on a mere mouthful
of food and drink: since their disappearance he had eaten nothing. And
he was now growing faint with hunger--and to add to his pains, some
one, downstairs, was cooking herrings. The smell of the frying-pan
nearly drove him ravenous.
He turned from the window presently and looked round at the small
room behind him. It was a poor, ill-furnished place--cleanliness, though
of a dingy sort, its only recommendation. There was a bed, and a
washstand, and a chest of drawers, and a couple of chairs--a few
shillings would have purchased the lot at any second-hand dealer's. In a
corner stood the occupant's trunk--all the property he had in the world
was in it, save a few books which were carefully ranged on the
chimney-piece, and certain writing materials that lay on a small table.

A sharp eye, glancing at the books and the writing materials, and at a
few sheets of manuscript scattered on the blotting-pad, would have
been quick to see that here was the old tale, once more being lived out,
of the literary aspirant who, at the very beginning of his career, was
finding, by bitter experience, that, of all callings, that of literature is the
most precarious.
A half-hesitating tap at the door prefaced the entrance of a woman--the
sort of woman who is seen in those streets by the score--a tallish,
thinnish woman, old before her time, perpetually harassed, always
anxious, always looking as if she expected misfortune. Her face was
full of anxiety now as she glanced at her lodger--who, on his part,
flushed all over his handsome young face with conscious
embarrassment. He knew very well what the woman wanted--and he
was powerless to respond to her appeal.
"Mr. Lauriston," she said in a half whisper, "when do you think you'll
be able to let me have a bit of money? It's going on for six weeks now,
you know, and I'm that put to it, what with the rent, and the rates--"
Andrew Lauriston shook his head--not in denial, but in sheer
perplexity.
"Mrs. Flitwick," he answered, "I'll give you your money the very
minute I get hold of it! I told you the other day I'd sold two
stories--well, I've asked to be paid for them at once, and the cheque
might be here by any post. And I'm expecting another cheque, too--I'm
surprised they aren't both here by this. The minute they arrive, I'll settle
with you. I'm wanting money myself--as badly as you are!"
"I know that, Mr. Lauriston," assented Mrs. Flitwick, "and I wouldn't
bother you if I wasn't right pressed, myself. But there's the landlord at
me--he wants money tonight. And--you'll excuse me for mentioning
it--but, till you get your cheques, Mr. Lauriston, why don't you raise a
bit of ready money?"
Lauriston looked round at his landlady with an air of surprised enquiry.

"And how would I do that?" he asked.
"You've a right good gold watch, Mr. Lauriston," she answered. "Any
pawnbroker--and there's plenty of 'em, I'm sure!--'ud lend you a few
pounds on that. Perhaps you've never had occasion to go to a
pawnbroker before? No?--well, and I hadn't once upon a time, but I've
had to, whether or no, since I came to letting lodgings, and if I'd as
good a watch as yours is, I wouldn't go without money in my pocket! If
you've money coming in, you can always get your goods back--and I
should be thankful for something, Mr. Lauriston, if it was but a couple
o' pounds. My landlord's that hard--"
Lauriston turned and picked up his hat.
"All right, Mrs. Flitwick," he said quietly. "I'll see what I can do. I-- I'd
never even thought of it."
When the woman had gone away, closing the door behind her, he
pulled the watch out of his pocket and looked at it--an old-fashioned,
good, gold watch, which had been his father's. No doubt a pawnbroker
would lend money on it. But until then he had never had occasion to
think of pawnbrokers. He had come to London nearly two years before,
intending to make name, fame, and fortune by his pen. He had a little
money to be going on with-- when he came. It had dwindled steadily,
and it had been harder to replace it than he had calculated for. And at
last there he was, in that cheap lodging, and at the end of his resources,
and the cheque for his first two accepted stories had not arrived.
Neither had a loan which, sorely against his will, he had been driven to
request from the only man he could think of--an old schoolmate,