SOMETHING ELSE HAPPENS
Mr. Dering lay back in his chair, gazing at the door--the unromantic
office door--through which Elsie had just passed. I suppose that even
the driest of old bachelors and lawyers may be touched by the sight of a
young girl made suddenly and unexpectedly happy. Perhaps the mere
apparition of a lovely girl, dainty and delicate and sweet, daintily and
delicately apparelled, so as to look like a goddess or a wood-nymph
rather than a creature of clay, may have awakened old and long-forgotten
thoughts before the instincts of youth were stifled by piles of
parchment. It is the peculiar and undisputed privilege of the historian
to read thoughts, but it is not always necessary to write them down.
He sat up and sighed. 'I have not told her all,' he murmured. 'She shall
be happier still.' He touched his hand-bell. 'Checkley,' he said, 'ask
Mr. Austin kindly to step this way.--A day of surprise--of joyful
surprise--for both.'
It was indeed to be a day of good fortune, as you shall see.
He opened a drawer and took out a document rolled and tied, which he
laid upon the table before him.
George obeyed the summons, not without misgiving, for Elsie, he knew,
must by this time have had the dreaded interview, and the call might
have some reference to his own share in the great contumacy. To incur
the displeasure of his employer in connection with that event might lead
to serious consequences.
Astonishing thing! Mr. Dering received him with a countenance that
seemed transformed. He smiled benevolently upon him. He even laughed. He
smiled when George opened the door: he laughed when, in obedience to a
gesture of invitation, George took a chair. He actually laughed: not
weakly or foolishly, but as a strong man laughs.
'I want ten minutes with you, George Austin'--he actually used the
Christian name--'ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, or perhaps half an
hour.' He laughed again. 'Now, then'--his face assumed its usual
judicial expression, but his lips broke into unaccustomed smiles--'Now
then, sir, I have just seen my ward--my former ward, for she is now of
age--and have heard--well--everything there was to hear.'
'I have no doubt, sir, that what you heard from Elsie was the exact
truth.'
'I believe so. The questions which I put to her I also put to you. How
do you propose to live? On your salary? You have been engaged to my late
ward without asking the permission of her guardians--that is, her mother
and myself.'
'That is not quite the case. We found that her mother opposed the
engagement, and therefore it was not necessary to ask your permission.
We agreed to let the matter rest until she should be of age. Meanwhile,
we openly corresponded and saw each other.'
'It is a distinction without a difference. Perhaps what you would call a
legal distinction. You now propose to marry. Elsie Arundel is no longer
my ward; but, as a friend, I venture to ask you how you propose to live?
A wife and a house cost money. Shall you keep house and wife on your
salary alone? Have you any other resources?'
There are several ways of putting these awkward questions. There is
especially the way of accusation, by which you charge the guilty young
man of being by his own fault one of a very huge family--of having no
money and no expectations--nothing at all, unless he can make it for
himself. It is the manner generally adopted by parents and guardians.
Mr. Dering, however, when he put the question smiled genially and rubbed
his hands--a thing so unusual as to be terrifying in itself--as if he
was uttering a joke--a thing he never had done in his life. The
question, however, even when put in this, the kindest way, is one most
awkward for any young man, and especially to a young man in either
branch of the law, and most especially to a young man beginning the
ascent of the lower branch.
Consider, of all the professions, crowded as they are, there is none so
crowded as this branch of the law. 'What,' asks anxious Quiverful Pere,
'shall I do with this boy of mine? I will spend a thousand pounds upon
him and make him a solicitor. Once he has passed, the way is clear for
him.' 'How,' asks the ambitious man of trade, 'shall I advance my son?
I will make him a lawyer; once passed he will open an office and get a
practice and become rich. He will be a gentleman. And his children will
be born gentlemen.' Very good; a most laudable custom it is in this
realm of Great Britain for the young men still to be pressing upwards,
though those who are already high up would fain forget the days of
climbing and sneer at those who are making their way. But, applied to
this profession, climbing seems no longer practicable. This way of
advance will have to be abandoned.
Consider, again. Every profession gets rich out of its own mine. There
is the mine Ecclesiastic, the mine Medical, the mine Artistic, the mine
Legal. The last-named contains leases, covenants, agreements, wills,
bonds, mortgages, actions, partnerships, transfers, conveyances, county
courts, and other treasures, all to be had for the digging. But--and
this is too often forgotten--there is only a limited quantity to be
taken out of the mine every year, and there is not enough to go round,
except in very minute portions. And since, until we become socialists at
heart, we shall all of us continue to desire for our share that which is
called the mess of Benjamin, and since all cannot get that mess--which
Mr. Dering had enjoyed for the whole of his life--or anything like that
desirable portion, most young solicitors go in great heaviness of
spirit--hang their heads, corrugate their foreheads, write despairing
letters to the girls they left behind them, and with grumbling gratitude
take the hundred or two hundred a year which is offered for their
services as managing clerks. Again, the Legal mine seems of late years
not to yield anything like so much as formerly. There has been a cruel
shrinkage all over the country, and especially in country towns: the
boom of building seems to have come to an end: the agricultural
depression has dragged down with it an immense number of people who
formerly flourished with the lawyers, and, by means of their savings,
investments, leases, and partnerships and quarrels, made many a
solicitor fat and happy. That is all gone. It used to be easy, if one
had a little money, to buy a partnership. Now it is no longer possible,
or, at least, no longer easy. Nobody has a business greater than he
himself can manage; everybody has got a son coming in.
These considerations show why the question was difficult to answer.
Said George in reply, but with some confusion: 'We are prepared to live
on little. We are not in the least extravagant: Elsie will rough it.
Besides, she has her Art----'
'Out of which she makes at present nothing a year.'
'But she will get on--and I may hope, may reasonably hope, some time to
make an income larger than my present one.'
'You may hope--you may hope. But the position is not hopeful. In fact,
George Austin, you must marry on ten times your present income, or not
at all.'
'But I assure you, sir, our ideas are truly modest, and we have made up
our minds how we can live and pay our way.'
'You think you have. That is to say, you have prepared a table of
expenses showing how, with twopence to spare, you can live very well on
two hundred pounds a year. Of course you put down nothing for the
thousand and one little unexpected things which everybody of your
education and habits pays for every day.'
'We have provided as far as we can see.'
'Well, it won't do. Of course, I can't forbid the girl to marry you. She
is of age. I can't forbid you--but I can make it impossible--impossible
for you, Master Austin--impossible.'
He rapped the table. The words were stern, but the voice was kindly, and
he smiled again as he spoke. 'You thought you would do without me, did
you? Well--you shall see--you shall see.'
George received this threat without words, but with a red face, and with
rising indignation. Still, when one is a servant, one must endure the
reproofs of the master. He said nothing therefore, but waited.
'I have considered for some time,' Mr. Dering continued, 'how to meet
this case in a satisfactory manner. At last, I made up my mind. And if
you will read this document, young gentleman, you will find that I have
made your foolish proposal to marry on love and nothing else quite
impossible--quite impossible, sir.' He slapped the table with the paper,
and tossed it over to George.
George took the paper, and began to read it. Suddenly he jumped out of
his chair. He sprang to his feet. '_What?_' he cried.
'Go on--go on,' said Mr. Dering benevolently.
'Partnership? Partnership?' George gasped. 'What does it mean?'
'It is, as you say, a Deed of Partnership between myself and yourself.
The conditions of the Partnership are duly set forth--I hope you will
see your way to accepting them.--A Deed of Partnership. I do not know
within a few hundreds what your share may be, but I believe you may
reckon on at least two thousand for the first year, and more--much
more--before long.'
'More than a thousand?'
'You have not read the deed through. Call yourself a lawyer? Sit down,
and read it word for word.'
George obeyed, reading it as if it was a paper submitted to him for
consideration, a paper belonging to some one else.
'Well? You have read it?'
'Yes; I have read it through.'
'Observe that the Partnership may be dissolved by Death, Bankruptcy, or
Mutual Consent. I receive two-thirds of the proceeds for life.
That--alas!--will not be for long.--Well, young man, do you accept this
offer?'
'Accept? Oh! Accept? What can I do? What can I say--but accept?' He
walked to the window, and looked out; I suppose he was admiring the
trees in the square, which were certainly very beautiful in early July.
Then he returned, his eyes humid.
'Aha!' Mr. Dering chuckled. 'I told you that I would make it impossible
for you to marry on two hundred pounds a year. I waited till Elsie's
birthday. Well? You will now be able to revise that little estimate of
living on two hundred a year. Eh?'
'Mr. Dering,' said George, with breaking voice, 'I cannot believe it; I
cannot understand it. I have not deserved it.'
'Shake hands, my Partner.'
The two men shook hands.
'Now sit down and let us talk a bit,' said Mr. Dering. 'I am old. I am
past seventy. I have tried to persuade myself that I am still as fit for
work as ever. But I have had warnings. I now perceive that they must be
taken as warnings. Sometimes it is a little confusion of memory--I am
not able to account for little things--I forget what I did yesterday
afternoon. I suppose all old men get these reminders of coming decay. It
means that I must reduce work and responsibility. I might give up
business altogether and retire: I have money enough and to spare: but
this is the third generation of a successful House, and I could not bear
to close the doors, and to think that the Firm would altogether vanish.
So I thought I would take a partner, and I began to look about me.
Well--in brief, I came to the conclusion that I should find no young man
better qualified than yourself for ability and for power of work and for
all the qualities necessary for the successful conduct of such a House
as this. Especially I considered the essential of good manners. I was
early taught by my father that the greatest aid to success is good
breeding. I trust that in this respect I have done justice to the
teaching of one who was the most courtly of his time. You belong to an
age of less ceremony and less respect to rank. But we are not always in
a barrack or in a club. We are not all comrades or equals. There are
those below to consider as well as those above. There are women: there
are old men: you, my partner, have shown me that you can give to each
the consideration, the deference, the recognition that he deserves. True
breeding is the recognition of the individual. You are careful of the
small things which smooth the asperities of business. In no profession,
not even that of medicine, is a good manner more useful than in ours.
And this you possess.--It also pleases me,' he added after a pause, 'to
think that in making you my partner I am also promoting the happiness of
a young lady I have known all her life.'
George murmured something. He looked more like a guilty schoolboy than a
man just raised to a position most enviable. His cheeks were flushed and
his hands trembled. Mr. Dering touched his bell.
'Checkley,' he said, when that faithful retainer appeared, 'I have
already told you of my intention to take a partner. This is my new
partner.'
Checkley changed colour. His old eyes--or was George wrong?--flashed
with a light of malignity as he raised them. It made him feel
uncomfortable--but only for a moment.
'My partner, Checkley,' repeated Mr. Dering.
'Oh!' His voice was dry and grating. 'Since we couldn't go on as
before---- Well, I hope you won't repent it.'
'You shall witness the signing of the deed, Checkley. Call in a clerk.
So--there we have it, drawn, signed, and witnessed. Once more, my
partner, shake hands.'
* * * * *
Elsie retired to her own room after the snub administered to her rising
spirits. She soon began to sing again, being much too happy to be
affected by anything so small. She went on with her portrait, preserving
some, but not all, of the softness and benevolence which she had put
into it, and thereby producing what is allowed to be an excellent
portrait, but somewhat flattering. She herself knows very well that it
is not flattering at all, but even lower than the truth, only the other
people have never seen the lawyer in an expansive moment.
Now while she was thus engaged, her mind going back every other minute
to her newly-acquired inheritance, a cab drove up to the house--the door
flew open, and her lover--her George--flew into her arms.
'You here--George? Actually in the house? Oh! but you know----'
'I know--I know. But I could not possibly wait till this evening. My
dear child, the most wonderful--the most wonderful thing--the most
extraordinary thing--in the whole world has happened--a thing we could
never hope and never ask----'
'Mr. Dering has told you, then?'
'What? Do you know?'
'Mr. Dering told me this morning.--Oh, George! isn't it wonderful?'
'Wonderful? It is like the last chapter of a novel!' This he said
speaking as a fool, because the only last chapter in life is that in
which Azrael crosses the threshold.
'Oh, George!--I have been walking in the air--I have been flying--I have
been singing and dancing. I feel as if I had never before known what it
was to be happy. Mr. Dering said something about having it
settled--mind--it's all yours, George--yours as well as mine.'
'Yes,' said George, a little puzzled. 'I suppose in the eyes of the law
it is mine, but then it is yours as well. All that is mine is yours.
'Oh! Mr. Dering said it was mine in the eyes of the law. What does it
matter, George, what the stupid old law says?'
'Nothing, my dear--nothing at all.'
'It will be worth five hundred pounds a year very nearly. That, with
your two hundred pounds a year, will make us actually comfortable after
all our anxieties.'
'Five hundred a year? It will be worth four times that, I hope.'
'Four times? Oh, no!--that is impossible. But Mr. Dering told me that he
could hardly get so much as four per cent., and I have made a sum and
worked it out. Rule for simple interest: multiply the principal by the
rate per cent., and again by the time, and divide by a hundred. It is
quite simple. And what makes the sum simpler, you need only take one
year.'
'What principal, Elsie, by what interest? You are running your little
head against rules of arithmetic. Here there is no principal and no
interest. It is a case of proceeds, and then division.'
'We will call it proceeds, if you like, George, but he called it
interest. Anyhow, it comes to five hundred a year, very nearly; and with
your two hundred----'
'I don't know what you mean by your five hundred a year. As for my two
hundred, unless I am very much mistaken, that will very soon be two
thousand.'
'Your two hundred will become----? George, we are talking across each
other.'
'Yes. What money of yours do you mean?'
'I mean the twelve thousand pounds that Mr. Dering holds for me--with
accumulations--accumulations'--she began to sing the rhyme of the
omnibus wheels--'accumulations--ations--ations.'
'Twelve thousand pounds? Is this fairyland? Twelve thousand----? I
reel--I faint--I sink--I melt away. Take my hands--both my hands,
Elsie--kiss me kindly--it's better than brandy--kindly kiss me. Twelve
thousand pounds! with accumulations----'
'--ations--ations--ations,' she sung. 'Never before, George, have I
understood the loveliness and the power of money. They were given to Mr.
Dering by an anonymous person to be held for me--secretly. No one
knows--not even, yet, my mother.'
'Oh! It is altogether too much--too much: once there was a poor but
loving couple, and Fortune turned her wheel, and---- You don't
know--you most unsuspecting ignorant Thing--you can't guess-- Oh, Elsie,
I am a partner--Mr. Dering's partner!
They caught hands again--then they let go--then they sat down, and gazed
upon each other.
'Elsie,' said George.
'George,' said Elsie.
'We can now marry like everybody else--but much better. We shall have
furniture now.'
'All the furniture we shall want, and a house where we please. No
contriving now--no pinching.'
'No self-denying for each other, my dear.'
'That's a pity, isn't it?--But, George, don't repine. The advantages may
counterbalance the drawbacks. I think I see the cottage where we were
going to live. It is in Islington: or near it--Barnsbury, perhaps: there
is a little garden in front, and one at the back. There is always
washing hung out to dry. I don't like the smell of suds. For dinner, one
has cold Australian tinned meat for economy, not for choice. The rooms
are very small, and the furniture is shabby, because it was cheap and
bad to begin with. And when you come home--oh, George!'--she stuck her
forefinger in her chalk, and drew two or three lines on his face--'you
look like that, so discontented, so grumpy, so gloomy. Oh, my dear, the
advantages--they do so greatly outbalance the drawbacks; and George--you
will love your wife all the more--I am sure you will--because she can
always dress properly and look nice, and give you a dinner that will
help to rest you from the work of the day.'
Once more this foolish couple fell into each other's arms and kissed
again with tears and smiles and laughter.
'Who,' asked Mrs. Arundel, ringing the bell up-stairs, 'who is with Miss
Elsie below?'
On hearing that it was Mr. George Austin, whose presence in the house
was forbidden, Mrs. Arundel rose solemnly and awfully, and walked down
the stairs. She had a clear duty before her. When she threw open the
door, the lovers were hand in hand dancing round the room laughing--but
the tears were running down Elsie's cheeks.
'Elsie,' said her mother, standing at the open door, 'perhaps you can
explain this.'
'Permit me to explain,' said George.
'This gentleman, Elsie, has been forbidden the house.'
'One moment,' he began.
'Go, sir.' She pointed majestically to the window.
'Oh!' cried Elsie. 'Tell her, George--tell her; I cannot.' She fell to
laughing and crying together, but still held her lover by the hand.
'I will have no communication whatever with one who robs me of a
daughter,' said this Roman matron. 'Will you once more leave the house,
sir?'
'Mother--you _must_ hear him.'
'Nothing,' said Mrs. Arundel, 'will ever induce me to speak to
him--nothing.'
'Mother, don't be silly,' Elsie cried; 'you don't know what has
happened. You _must_ not say such things. You will only be sorry for
them afterwards.'
'Never--never. One may forgive such a man, but one can never speak to
him, never--whatever happens--never.' The lady looked almost heroic as
she waved her right hand in the direction of the man.
'I will go,' said George, 'but not till you have heard me. I am
rich--Elsie is rich--we shall not marry into poverty. The whole
situation is entirely changed.'
'Changed,' Elsie repeated, taking George's arm.
* * * * *
'My dear George,' said Mrs. Arundel, when she had heard the whole
story--and by cross examination persuaded herself that it was true--'you
know on what a just basis my objections were founded. Otherwise, I
should have been delighted at the outset.--Kiss me, Elsie.--You have my
full consent, children. These remarkable events are Providential.--On
Mr. Dering's death or retirement, you will step into an enormous
practice. Follow his example. Take no partner till old age compels you.
Keep all the profits for yourself--all.--My dear George, you should be a
very happy man. Not so rich, perhaps, as my son-in-law, Sir Samuel, but
above the ordinary run of common happiness. As for the past---- We will
now go down to lunch.--There is the bell. These emotions are
fatiguing.'