'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 princ.i.p.al 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 princ.i.p.al, Elsie, by what interest? You are running your little head against rules of arithmetic. Here there is no princ.i.p.al 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 acc.u.mulations--acc.u.mulations'--she began to sing the rhyme of the omnibus wheels--'acc.u.mulations--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 acc.u.mulations----'

'--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.