Collected works of j s f.., p.396
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 396
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE UNEXPECTED WINDFALL
GEORGINA, ALREADY CONSIDERABLY mystified by Brixey’s strange proceedings, and wondering why he had conducted her to a retired nook in a dimly lighted corridor, wherein, thanks to screens and curtains, they were completely shut off from the gaze of mortal eye, turned on him with a glance of astonishment.
“Why do you ask that, Mr. Brixey?” she exclaimed. “To me — how could it belong to me?”
“Oh rot!” retorted Brixey. “Don’t let’s stand on ceremony. I mean, don’t let’s quibble about terms, you know. I feel this is a great occasion.
“There are all sorts of momentous events in the atmosphere. You and I, we’re momentous events, or personalities, or — or something! Perhaps I’m not quite clear —— !”
“Anything but!” said Georgina decisively.
Brixey made a desperate endeavour.
“Look here!” he said. “Let’s try to be — I mean, let me try to be. You’ve been with these people ever since Sunday night, and when I came in just now, I saw, you were all in the thick of revelations.
“Has it come out that Mrs. Byfield was never legally married to Martin Byfield? That’s what I want to know. I’m on pins and needles to know it!”
“Then it has not come out!” answered Georgina with even more decision. “What has come out, undoubtedly, is that she was never legally married to that man Cradock Melsome. Therefore, she was legally carried to my uncle Martin.”
“Fact?” asked Brixey.
“That’s what she brought that old clergyman here for,” replied Georgina.
“Then the Byfield money, most of which I’ve just rescued from a couple of impudent thieves, is really hers and Fanshawe’s!” demanded Brixey.
“I don’t think I’m wrong in saying — precisely so!” answered Georgina.
Brixey heaved a deep sign — unmistakably a sigh of immense relief.
“Hooray!” he said! “Delighted to hear it! Best news I’ve heard for a week.”
Georgina turned a little in her seat and looked steadily at him.
“Why?” she exclaimed. “What on earth have you got to do with it? Or, rather, what on earth has it got to do with you? Aren’t you a bit queer, Mr. Brixey?”
“I am a queer lot!” assented Brixey. “Odd, perhaps — I always was. But, the fact is, I — I wanted to speak to you.”
“You are doing,” remarked Georgina.
“To you — you!” continued Brixey, emphasising the personal pronoun. “That’s why I asked what I did just now. You see, I — the fact is, I have strong views on things in general.”
“Yes?” remarked Georgina.
“On most things,” asserted Brixey. “I — you must understand that I am by no means conventional. I neither do nor say things that other people say or do, usually!”
“For instance —— ?” suggested Georgina.
“Yes, quite right,” said Brixey. “I — you see, I have very queer ideas about — marriage!”
Georgina turned the full inquiry of her eyes on him.
“Yes!” declared Brixey. “Always had — at least, I mean, always since I arrived at years of discretion, you know.”
“I hope,” observed Georgina, looking thoughtfully at a corner of the convenient alcove, “I hope they aren’t very queer!”
“Well perhaps not particularly so,” said Brixey “But they’re mine! You see, I always felt that I could never marry a girl, you know, who had a lot of money — couldn’t do it!”
“No?” remarked Georgina demurely. “You are, indeed, different from most young men, Mr. Brixey.”
“Well, it’s a fact!” assented Brixey. “Human nature — we’re poor things. Now, can you think of anything more awful than the spectacle of a wife with, say, a hundred thousand pounds, and a husband with five pounds a week? Dreadful!”
“It depends how you look at it,” remarked Georgina. “Some men who haven’t five shillings a week would be very thankful to get a wife who possessed a hundred thousand pounds!”
“Not men!” exclaimed Brixey. “Don’t call ’em men! They aren’t men, that sort! Call ’em parasites, leeches — anything but men. A man,” he continued, “should be the rock on which the family’s built! Those are my ideas.”
“Yes?” replied Georgina, somewhat timidly.
“It’s not a week since we met — first,” observed Brixey. “isn’t that queer?”
“Is it?” asked Georgina.
“Seems so.” asserted Brixey. “More like — like a long time, somehow. You came into my room at the Sentinel, didn’t you?”
“Can’t you remember?” inquired Georgina.
“Remember everything!” protested Brixey. “Then we travelled down to Selchester together. I say look here!”
“Well?” said Georgina.
“Now that this confounded business is wound up,” said Brixey, “I’ve the best part of a longish holiday before me. What do you say if I finish it up at Selchester? I can, you know.”
“Would you really like to?” asked Georgina, still more timidly.
“Rather!” exclaimed Brixey. He looked out of his eye-corners at his companion and ventured to take her hand. “So that you and I could see a bit more of each other, eh?”
Georgina looked hard at the corner of the alcove, but she made no attempt to withdraw the hand which Brixey had possessed himself of. And Brixey proceeded to press it gently.
“In time, you see,” he murmured ingratiatingly, “you might come to — to think of me a bit. You see, I — —”
Georgina suddenly withdrew his hand and started aside.
“There’s Fanshawe,” she whispered.
Brixey looked out into the corridor and saw Fanshawe Byfield hurrying along, piloted by a waiter towards the room in which the conclave still sat.
He was evidently in great haste, and he carried a packet of papers in his hand, and was altogether so engrossed that he looked neither right nor left. And as he disappeared Brixey repossessed himself of Georgina’s fingers.
“What do you say?” he whispered. “Am I to come back to Selchester? Come now, say the word!”
Georgina hesitated and blushed, and Brixey drew her her hand nearer.
“Do you really want to?” she said at last.
“Ever since I first met you!” asserted Brixey. “Sure case!”
Georgina looked down.
“To be sure,” she remarked, “I have no money. That’s just what you want, isn’t it?”
“I’ve plenty!” declared Brixey. “Hang money! But, as it happens, I’m pretty well off in that way, quite apart from my profession. Say I’m to come!”
Georgina waited a full moment.
“I’m awfully in love with you!” whispered Brixey. “By George, it’s a fact! Don’t you believe it?”
“Ye-es!” admitted Georgina. “I do, if you say so. But — —”
“I say,” he murmured. “No more skirting round the subject! Look here. Are you going to marry me? And soon?”
Georgina took half a minute to consider, during which Brixey exercised a material pressure on her.
“I wouldn’t mind if you’re quite certain,” she admitted at last. “Though, really, it’s all so — —”
At that moment there came the sound of a violently opened door of hurrying feet, and of Fanshawe’s voice, loudly demanding his cousin and Brixey. Those two drew apart and appeared in the corridor, to find Fanshawe gazing in all directions.
“Here, you two!” he called, as he caught sight of them. “Where on earth were you? Come here! I’ve some news for you, Georgie! By Jove! you never heard such news! Come on!”
He forced them into the room which they had recently quitted, and into the presence of those they had left there, who all gazed at Georgina in a way which betokened something. Georgina’s blushes deepened.
“What is it, Fanshawe?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
Fanshawe was swelling with importance. He assumed a sort of heavy-father attitude at the head of the table, from which he picked up a thick packet, the seals of which had recently been broken.
“Georgie!” he said solemnly, “you know that you sent me down to that said deposit place this morning, acting on instructions from the mater? It turns out that my father, some time before his death, placed this packet in a safe which he rented at that place, and left instructions to my mother that I was to fetch it in person on my twenty-first birthday.
“I have carried out those instructions,” continued Fanshawe, increasing in youthful solemnity. “Here is the packet! It is endorsed, Georgie, in my father’s handwriting. He says this— ‘I wish my son Fanshawe to make a present of what is here enclosed to his cousin Georgina on the day on which he comes of age.’ See?
“So now, Georgie, your cousin Fanshawe, in accordance with his fathers wish, hands this over to you, and — in short, my dear girl, here you are, and jolly glad I am, you know, and — the fact is, it’s a little matter of ten thousand pounds.”
Therewith Fanshawe pushed a bulky packet into the hands of the astonished Georgina, who, becoming pale and red by turns, stared from Fanshawe to the smiling and nodding faces of the others and shot a queer glance at Brixey.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and Brixey knew that the exclamation was meant for none but himself. “I — must I take it?”
Brixey shot in a rapid order which penetrated to Georgina’s consciousness long before the chorus of congratulatory protestations struck it.
“You may!” he whispered. “Yes, certainly — now!”
THE END
The Orange-Yellow Diamond (1920)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER ONE
THE PRETTY PAWNBROKER
ON THE SOUTHERN edge of the populous parish of Paddington, in a parallelogram bounded by Oxford and Cambridge Terrace on the south, Praed Street on the north, and by Edgware Road on the east and Spring Street on the west, lies an assemblage of mean streets, the drab dulness of which forms a remarkable contrast to the pretentious architectural grandeurs of Sussex Square and Lancaster Gate, close by. In these streets the observant will always find all those evidences of depressing semi-poverty which are more evident in London than in any other English city. The houses look as if laughter was never heard within them. Where the window blinds are not torn, they are dirty; the folk who come out of the doors wear anxious and depressed faces. Such shops as are there are mainly kept for the sale of food of poor quality: the taverns at the corners are destitute of attraction or pretension. Whoever wanders into these streets finds their sordid shabbiness communicating itself: he escapes, cast down, wondering who the folk are who live in those grey, lifeless cages; what they do, what they think; how life strikes them. Even the very sparrows which fight in the gutters for garbage are less lively than London sparrows usually are; as for the children who sit about the doorsteps, they look as if the grass, the trees, the flowers, and the sunlight of the adjacent Kensington Gardens were as far away as the Desert of Gobi. Within this slice of the town, indeed, life is lived, as it were, in a stagnant backwash, which nothing and nobody can stir.
In an upper room of one of the more respectable houses in one of the somewhat superior streets of this neighbourhood, a young man stood looking out of the window one November afternoon. It was then five o’clock, and the darkness was coming: all day a gentle, never-ceasing rain had been bringing the soot down from the dark skies upon the already dingy roofs. It was a dismal and miserable prospect upon which the watcher looked out, but not so miserable nor so dismal as the situation in which he just then found himself. The mean street beneath him was not more empty of cheerfulness than his pockets were empty of 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 time. 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, far away in Scotland. He had listened for the postman’s knock, hoping it would bring relief, for four long days — and not one letter had come, and he was despairing and heartsick. But — there was the watch!
He went out presently, and on the stair, feebly lighted by a jet of gas, he ran up against a fellow-lodger — a young Jew, whom he knew by the name of Mr. Melchior Rubinstein, who occupied the rooms immediately beneath his own. He was a quiet, affable little person, with whom Lauriston sometimes exchanged a word or two — and the fact that he sported rings on his fingers, a large pin in his tie, and a heavy watch-chain, which was either real gold or a very good imitation, made Lauriston think that he would give him some advice. He stopped him — with a shy look, and an awkward blush.
“I say!” he said. “I — the fact is, I’m a bit hard up — temporarily, you know — and I want to borrow some money on my watch. Could you tell me where there’s a respectable pawnbroker’s?”
