_MY UNCLE'S WILL._
I.
"My dear Mr. Payne," said my deceased uncle's lawyer with an emphaticwag of his forefinger, "I assure you there's no help for it. Thelanguage of the will is perfectly simple and explicit. Either you mustdo as your late uncle desired, or you must let the property go to therepresentative of his deceased wife's family."
"But surely, Blenkinsopp," I said deprecatingly, "we might get the Courtof Chancery to set it aside, as being contrary to public policy, orsomething of that sort. I know you can get the Court of Chancery toaffirm almost anything you ask them, especially if it's something alittle abstruse and out of the common; it gratifies the Court's opinionof its own acumen. Now, clearly, it's contrary to public policy that aman should go and make his own nephew ridiculous by his last will andtestament, isn't it?"
Mr. Blenkinsopp shook his head vigorously. "Bless my soul, Mr. Payne,"he answered, helping himself to a comprehensive pinch from his snuff-box(an odious habit, confined, I believe, at the present day to familysolicitors), "bless my soul, my dear sir, the thing's simply impossible.Here's your uncle, the late Anthony Aikin, Esquire, deceased, a personof sound mind and an adult male above the age of twenty-one years--to bequite accurate, _oetatis suoe_, seventy-eight--makes his will, andduly attests the same in the presence of two witnesses; everything quitein order: not a single point open to exception in any way. Well, hegives and bequeaths to his nephew, Theodore Payne, gentleman--that'syou--after a few unimportant legacies, the bulk of his real and personalestate, provided only that you adopt the surname of Aikin, prefixedbefore and in addition to your own surname of Payne. But,--and this isvery important,--if you don't choose to adopt and use the said surnameof Aikin, in the manner hereinbefore recited, then and in that case, mydear sir--why, then and in that case, as clear as currant jelly, thewhole said residue of his real and personal estate is to go to the heiror heirs-at-law of the late Amelia Maria Susannah Aikin, wife of thesaid Anthony Aikin, Esquire, deceased. Nothing could be simpler orplainer in any way, and there's really nothing on earth for you to doexcept to choose between the two alternatives so clearly set before youby your deceased uncle."
"But look here, you know, Blenkinsopp," I said appealingly, "no fellowcan really be expected to go and call himself Aikin-Payne, now can he?It's positively too ridiculous. Mightn't I stick the Payne before theAikin, and call myself Payne-Aikin, eh? That wouldn't be quite soabsurdly suggestive of a perpetual toothache. But Aikin-Payne! Why, thecomic papers would take it up immediately. Every footman in London wouldgrin audibly when he announced me. I fancy I hear the fellows this verymoment: flinging open the door with a violent attempt at seriousness,and shouting out, 'Mr. Haching-Pain, ha, ha, ha!' with a loud guffawbehind the lintel. It would be simply unendurable!"
"My dear sir," answered the unsympathetic Blenkinsopp (mostunsympathetic profession, an attorney's, really), "the law doesn't takeinto consideration the question of the probable conduct of footmen. Itmust be Aikin-Payne or nothing. I admit the collocation does sound alittle ridiculous, to be sure; but your uncle's will is perfectlyunequivocal upon the subject--in fact, ahem! I drew it up myself, to saythe truth; and unless you call yourself Aikin-Payne, 'in the mannerhereinbefore recited,' then and in that case, observe (there's nodeception), then and in that case the heir or heirs-at-law of the lateAmelia Maria Susannah aforesaid will be entitled to benefit under thewill as fully in every respect as if the property was bequeatheddirectly to him, her, or them, by name, and to no other person."
"And who the dickens are these heirs-at-law, Blenkinsopp?" I ventured toask after a moment's pause, during which the lawyer had refreshedhimself with another prodigious sniff from his snuff-box.
"Who the dickens are they, Mr. Payne? I should say Mr. Aikin-Payne,ahem--why, how the dickens should I know, sir? You don't suppose I keepa genealogical table and full pedigree of all the second cousins of allmy clients hung up conspicuously in some spare corner of my brain, doyou, eh? Upon my soul I really haven't the slightest notion. All I knowabout them is that the late Mrs. Amelia Maria Susannah Aikin, deceased,had one sister, who married somebody or other somewhere, against Mr.Anthony Aikin's wishes, and that he never had anything further to say toher at any time. 'But where she's gone and how she fares, nobody knowsand nobody cares,' sir, as the poet justly remarks."
I was not previously acquainted with the poet's striking observation onthis matter, but I didn't stop to ask Mr. Blenkinsopp in what author'swork these stirring lines had originally appeared. I was too muchoccupied with other thoughts at that moment to pursue my investigationsinto their authorship and authenticity. "Upon my word, Blenkinsopp," Isaid, "I've really half a mind to shy the thing up and go on with myschoolmastering."
Mr. Blenkinsopp shrugged his shoulders. "Believe me, my dear youngfriend," he said sententiously, "twelve hundred a year is not to besneezed at. Without inquiring too precisely into the exact state of yourexisting finances, I should be inclined to say your present engagementcan't be worth to you more than three hundred a year."
I nodded acquiescence. "The exact figure," I murmured.
"And your private means are?"
"Non-existent," I answered frankly.
"Then, my dear sir, excuse such plainness of speech in a man of myprofession; but if you throw it up you will be a perfect fool, sir; aperfect fool, I assure you."
"But perhaps, Blenkinsopp, the next-of-kin won't step in to claim it!"
"Doesn't matter a bit, my dear fellow. Executors are bound to satisfythemselves before paying you over your legacy that you have assumed andwill use the name of Aikin before and in addition to your own name ofPayne, in the manner hereinbefore recited. There's no getting over thatin any way."
I sighed aloud. "Twelve hundred a year is certainly very comfortable," Isaid. "But it's a confounded bore that one should have a conditiontacked on to it which will make one a laughing-stock for life to all thebuffoons and idiots of one's acquaintance."
Blenkinsopp nodded in modified assent. "After all," he answered, "Iwouldn't mind taking it on the same terms myself."
"Well," said I, "_che sara sara_. If it must be, it must be; and you mayput an advertisement into the _Times_ accordingly. Tell the executorsthat I accept the condition."
II.
"I won't stop in town," said I to myself, "to be chaffed by all thefellows at the club and in the master's room at St. Martin's. I'll runover on the Continent until the wags (confound them) have forgotten allabout it. I'm a sensitive man, and if there's anything on earth I hateit's cheap and easy joking and punning on a name or a personalpeculiarity which lays itself open obviously to stupid buffoonery. Ofcourse I shall chuck up the schoolmastering now;--it's an odious tradeat any time--and I may as well take a pleasant holiday while I'm aboutit. Let me see--Nice or Cannes or Florence would be the best thing atthis time of year. Escape the November fogs and January frosts. Let'smake it Cannes, then, and try the first effect of my new name upon the_corpus vile_ of the Cannois."
So I packed up my portmanteau hurriedly, took the 7.45 to Paris, andthat same evening found myself comfortably ensconced in a _wagon lit_,making my way as fast as the Lyons line would carry me _en route_ forthe blue Mediterranean.
The Hotel du Paradis at Cannes is a very pleasant and well managedplace, where I succeeded in making myself perfectly at home. I gave myfull name to the _concierge_ boldly. "Thank Heaven," I thought,"Aikin-Payne will sound to her just as good a label to one's back asHoward or Cholmondely. She won't see the absurdity of the combination."She was a fat Vaudoise Swiss by origin, and she took it without moving amuscle. But she answered me in very tolerable English--me, who thoughtmy Parisian accent unimpeachable! "Vary well, sirr, your lettares shallbe sent to your apartments." I saw there was the faintest twinkle of asmile about the corner of her mouth, and I felt that even she, a mereforeigner, a Swiss _concierge_, perceived at once the incongruity ofthe two surnames. Incongruity! that's the worst of it! Would that theywere incongruous! But it's their fatal and obvi
ous congruity with oneanother that makes their juxtaposition so ridiculous. Call a man Payne,and I venture to say, though I was to the manner born, and it's me thatsays it as oughtn't to say it, you couldn't find a neater or morerespectable surname in all England: call him plain Aikin, and thoughthat perhaps is less aristocratic, it's redeemed by all the associationsof childhood with the earliest literature we imbibed through theinnocuous pages of "Evenings at Home:" but join the two together, in theorder of alphabetical precedence, and you get an Aikin-Payne, which is athing to make a sensitive man, compelled to bear it for a lifetime, turnpermanently red like a boiled lobster. My uncle must have done it onpurpose, in order to inflict a deadly blow on what he would doubtlesshave called my confounded self-conceit!
However, I changed my tourist suit for a black cutaway, and made my waydown to the _salle-a-manger_. The dinner was good in itself, and wasenlivened for me by the presence of an extremely pretty girl of, saynineteen, who sat just opposite, and whose natural protector I soonmanaged to draw casually into a general conversation. I say her naturalprotector, because, though I took him at the time for her father, Idiscovered afterwards that he was really her uncle. Experience hastaught me that when you sit opposite a pretty girl at an hotel, youought not to open fire by directing your observations to herself inperson; you should begin diplomatically by gaining the confidence of hermale relations through the wisdom or the orthodoxy of your political andsocial opinions. Mr. Shackleford--that, I found afterwards, was theuncle's name--happened to be a fiery Tory, while I have the personalmisfortune to be an equally rabid Radical: but on this occasion Isuccessfully dissembled, acquiescing with vague generality in hisdenunciation of my dearest private convictions; and by the end of dinnerwe had struck up quite an acquaintance with one another.
"Ruby," said the aunt to the pretty girl, as soon as dinner was over,"shall we take a stroll out in the gardens?"
Ruby! what a charming name really. I wonder, now, what is her surname?And what a beautiful graceful figure, as she rises from the table, andthrows her little pale blue Indian silk scarf around her prettyshoulders! Clearly, Ruby is a person whose acquaintance I ought tocultivate.
"Uncle won't come, of course," said Ruby, with a pleasant smile (whatteeth!). "The evening air would be too much for him. You know," sheadded, looking across to me, "almost everybody at Cannes is in theinvalid line, and mustn't stir out after sunset. Aunt and I areunfashionable enough to be quite strong, and to go in for a stroll bymoonlight."
"I happen to be equally out of the Cannes fashion," I said, directing myobservation, with great strategic skill, rather to the aunt than to MissRuby in person; "and if you will allow me I should be very glad toaccompany you."
So we turned out on the terrace of the Paradis, and walked among thedate-palms and prickly pears that fill the pretty tropical garden. Itwas a lovely moonlight evening in October; and October is still almost asummer month in the Riviera. The feathery branches of the palms stoodout in clear-cut outline against the pale moonlit sky; the white housesof Cannes gleamed with that peculiarly soft greenish Mediterranean tintin the middle distance; and the sea reflected the tremulous shimmer inthe background, between the jagged sierra of the craggy Esterel and thelong low outline of the Ile Ste. Marguerite. Altogether, it was anideal poet's evening, the very evening to stroll for the first time witha beautiful girl through the charmed alleys of a Provencal garden!
Ruby Estcourt--she gave me her name before long--was quite as pleasantto talk to as she was beautiful and graceful to behold. Fortunately, heraunt was not one of the race of talkative old ladies, and she left themass of the conversation entirely to Ruby and myself. In the course ofhalf an hour or so spent in pacing up and down that lovely terrace, Ihad picked out, bit by bit, all that I most wanted to know about RubyEstcourt. She was an orphan, without brothers or sisters, and evidentlywithout any large share of this world's goods; and she lived with heraunt and uncle, who were childless people, and who usually spent thesummer in Switzerland, retiring to the Riviera every winter for thebenefit of Mr. Shackleford's remaining lung. Quite simple and unaffectedRuby seemed, though she had passed most of her lifetime in thetoo-knowing atmosphere of Continental hotels, among that cosmopolitanpublic which is so very sharp-sighted that it fancies it can seeentirely through such arrant humbug as honour in men and maidenlyreserve in women. Still, from that world Ruby Estcourt had somehowmanaged to keep herself quite unspotted; and a simpler, prettier, morenatural little fairy you wouldn't find anywhere in the English villagesof half a dozen counties.
It was all so fresh and delightful to me--the palms, the Mediterranean,the balmy evening air, the gleaming white town, and pretty RubyEstcourt--that I walked up and down on the terrace as long as they wouldlet me; and I was really sorry when good Mrs. Shackleford at lastsuggested that it was surely getting time for uncle's game of cribbage.As they turned to go, Ruby said good evening, and then, hesitating for amoment as to my name, said quite simply and naturally, "Why, you haven'tyet told us who you are, have you?"
I coloured a little--happily invisible by moonlight--as I answered,"That was an omission on my part, certainly. When you told me you wereMiss Estcourt, I ought to have mentioned in return that my own name wasAikin-Payne, Theodore Aikin-Payne, if you please: may I give you acard?"
"Aching Pain!" Ruby said, with a smile. "Did I hear you right? AchingPain, is it? Oh, what a very funny name!"
I drew myself up as stiffly as I was able. "Not Aching Pain," I said,with a doleful misgiving in my heart--it was clear everybody would putthat odd misinterpretation upon it for the rest of my days. "Not AchingPain, but Aikin-Payne, Miss Estcourt. A-i-k-i-n, Aikin, the Aikins ofStaffordshire; P-a-y-n-e, Payne, the Paynes of Surrey. My originalsurname was Payne, a surname that I venture to say I'm a little proudof; but my uncle, Mr. Aikin, from whom I inherit property," I thoughtthat was rather a good way of putting it, "wished me to adopt his familyname in addition to my own--in fact, made it a condition, _sine quanon_, of my receiving the property."
"Payne--Aikin," Ruby said, turning the names over to herself slowly."Ah, yes, I see. Excuse my misapprehension, Mr.--Mr. Aikin-Payne. It wasvery foolish of me; but really, you know, it _does_ sound so veryludicrous, doesn't it now?"
I bit my lip, and tried to smile back again. Absurd that a man should bemade miserable about such a trifle; and yet I will freely confess thatat that moment, in spite of my uncle's twelve hundred a year, I feltutterly wretched. I bowed to pretty little Ruby as well as I was able,and took a couple more turns by myself hurriedly around the terrace.
Was it only fancy, or did I really detect, as Ruby Estcourt said the twonames over to herself just now, that she seemed to find the combinationa familiar one? I really didn't feel sure about it; but it certainlydid sound as if she had once known something about the Paynes or theAikins. Ah, well! there are lots of Paynes and Aikins in the world, nodoubt; but alas! there is only one of them doomed to go through lifewith the absurd label of an Aikin-Payne fastened upon his unwillingshoulders.
III.
"Good morning, Mr.--Mr. Aikin-Payne," said Ruby Estcourt, stumblingtimidly over the name, as we met in the _salle-a-manger_ at breakfastnext day. "I hope you don't feel any the worse for the chilly air lastevening."
I bowed slightly. "You seem to have some difficulty in remembering myfull name, Miss Estcourt," I said suggestively. "Suppose you call mesimply Mr. Payne. I've been accustomed to it till quite lately, and totell you the truth, I don't altogether relish the new addition."
"I should think not, indeed," Ruby answered frankly. "I never heard sucha ridiculous combination in all my life before. I'm sure your uncle musthave been a perfect old bear to impose it upon you."
"It was certainly rather cruel of him," I replied, as carelessly as Icould, "or at least rather thoughtless. I dare say, though, theabsurdity of the two names put together never struck him. What are yougoing to do with yourselves to-day, Mr. Shackleford? Everybody at Canneshas nothing to do but to amuse themselves, I suppose?"
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Mr. Shackleford answered that they were going to drive over in themorning to Vallauris, and that if I cared to share a carriage with them,he would be happy to let me accompany his party. Nothing could havesuited my book better. I was alone, I wanted society and amusement, andI had never seen a prettier girl than Ruby Estcourt. Here was the verything I needed, ready cut out to my hand by propitious fortune. I foundout as time went on that Mr. Shackleford, being a person of limitedincome, and a bad walker, had only one desire in life, which was to getsomebody else to pay half his carriage fares for him by arrangement. Wewent to a great many places together, and he always divided the expensesequally between us, although I ought only to have paid a quarter, as hisparty consisted of three people, while I was one solitary bachelor. Thisapparent anomaly he got over on the ingenious ground that if I had takena carriage by myself it would have cost me just twice as much. However,as I was already decidedly anxious for pretty little Ruby Estcourt'ssociety, this question of financial detail did not weigh heavily uponme. Besides, a man who has just come into twelve hundred a year canafford to be generous in the matter of hackney carriages.
We had a delightful drive along the shore of that beautiful blue gulf toVallauris, and another delightful drive back again over the hills to theParadis. True, old Mr. Shackleford proved rather a bore through hisanxiety to instruct me in the history and technical nature of keramicware in general, and of the Vallauris pottery in particular, when Iwanted rather to be admiring the glimpses of Bordighera and the Cap St.Martin and the snow-clad summits of the Maritime Alps with RubyEstcourt. But in spite of all drawbacks--and old Mr. Shackleford withhis universal information really _was_ a serious drawback--I thoroughlyenjoyed that first morning by the lovely Mediterranean. Ruby herself wasabsolutely charming. Such a light, bright, fairy-like little person,moving among the priceless vases and tazzas at Clement Massier's as ifshe were an embodied zephyr, too gentle even to knock them over with awhiff of her little Rampoor shawl--but there, I can't describe her, andI won't attempt it. Ruby, looking over my shoulder at this moment, saysI always was an old stupid: so that, you see, closes the question.
An old stupid I certainly was for the next fortnight. Old Mr.Shackleford, only too glad to have got hold of a willing victim in thecarriage-sharing fraud, dragged me about the country to every availablepoint of view or object of curiosity within ten miles of the SquareBrougham. Ruby usually accompanied us; and as the two old peoplenaturally occupied the seat of honour at the back of the carriage, why,of course Ruby and I had to sit together with our backs to the horses--amode of progression which I had never before known to be so agreeable.Every evening, Ruby and I walked out on the terrace in the moonlight;and I need hardly say that the moon, in spite of her pretended coldness,is really the most romantic and sentimental satellite in the whole solarsystem. To cut a long story short, by the end of the fortnight I wasvery distinctly in love with Ruby; and if you won't think the avowal aconceited one, I venture to judge by the sequel that Ruby was almostequally in love with me.
One afternoon, towards the close of my second week at Cannes, Ruby and Iwere sitting together on the retired seat in the grounds beside the pondwith the goldfish. It was a delicious sunny afternoon, with the lasttouch of southern summer in the air, and Ruby was looking even prettierthan usual, in her brocade pattern print dress, and her little straw hatwith the scarlet poppies. (Ruby always dressed--I may say dresses--inthe very simplest yet most charming fashion). There was something in thetime and place that moved me to make a confession I had for some timebeen meditating; so I looked straight in her face, and not being givento long speeches, I said to her just this, "Ruby, you are the sweetestgirl I ever saw in my life. Will you marry me?"
Ruby only looked at me with a face full of merriment, and burst outlaughing. "Why, Mr. Payne," she said (she had dropped that hideousprefix long ago), "you've hardly known me yet a fortnight, and here youcome to me with a regular declaration. How can I have had time to thinkabout my answer to such a point-blank question?"
"If you like, Ruby," I answered, "we can leave it open for a little; butit occurs to me you might as well say 'yes' at once: for if we leave itopen, common sense teaches me that you probably mean to say yes in thelong-run." And to clench the matter outright, I thought it best to stoopacross and kiss Ruby just once, by way of earnest. Ruby took the kisscalmly and sedately; so then I knew the matter was practically settled.
"But there's one thing, Mr. Payne, I must really insist upon," Ruby saidvery quietly; "and that is that I mustn't be called Mrs. Aikin-Payne. IfI marry you at all, I must marry you as plain Mr. Payne without anyAikin. So that's clearly understood between us."
Here was a terrible condition indeed! I reasoned with Ruby, I explainedto Ruby, I told Ruby that if she positively insisted upon it I must goback to my three hundred a year and my paltry schoolmastership, and mustgive up my uncle Aikin's money. Ruby would hear of no refusal.
"You have always the alternative of marrying somebody else, you know,Mr. Payne," she said with her most provoking and bewitching smile; "butif you really do want to marry me, you know the conditions."
"But, Ruby, you would never care to live upon a miserable pittance ofthree hundred a year! I hate the name as much as you do, but I think Ishould try to bear it for the sake of twelve hundred a year and perfectcomfort."
No, Ruby was inexorable. "Take me or leave me," she said with provokingcalmness, "but if you take me, give up your uncle's ridiculoussuggestion. You can have three days to make your mind up. Till then, letus hear no more about the subject."
IV.
During those three days I kept up a brisk fire of telegrams with oldBlenkinsopp in Chancery Lane; and at the end of them I came mournfullyto the conclusion that I must either give up Ruby or give up the twelvehundred a year. If I had been a hero of romance I should have had nodifficulty at all in deciding the matter: I would have nobly refused themoney off-hand, counting it as mere dross compared with the loving heartof a beautiful maiden. But unfortunately I am not a hero of romance; Iam only an ordinary graduate of an English university. Under thesecircumstances, it did seem to me very hard that I must throw away twelvehundred a year for a mere sentimental fancy. And yet, on the other hand,not only did I hate the name myself, but I couldn't bear to impose it onRuby; and as to telling Ruby that I wouldn't have her, because Ipreferred the money, that was clearly quite impossible. The more Ilooked the thing in the face, the more certain it appeared that I mustrelinquish my dream of wealth and go back (with Ruby) to myschoolmastering and my paltry three hundred. After all, lots of otherfellows marry on that sum; and to say the truth, I positively shrankmyself from going through life under the ridiculous guise of anAikin-Payne.
The upshot of it all was that at the end of the three days, I took Rubya little walk alone among the olive gardens behind the shrubbery."Ruby," I said to her, falteringly, "you're the most fantastic,self-willed, imperious little person I ever met with, and I want to makejust one more appeal to you. Won't you reconsider your decision, andtake me in spite of the surname?"
Ruby grubbed up a little weed with the point of her parasol, and lookedaway from me steadfastly as she answered with her immovable and annoyingcalmness, "No, Mr. Payne, I really can't reconsider the matter in anyway. It was you who took three days to make your mind up. Have you madeit up yet or not, pray?"
"I _have_ made it up, Ruby."
"And you mean----?" she said interrogatively, with a faint little tremorin her voice which I had never before noticed, and which thrilledthrough me with the ecstasy of a first discovery.
"And I mean," I answered, "to marry you, Ruby, if you will condescend totake me, and let my Uncle Aikin's money go to Halifax. Can you manage,Ruby, to be happy, as a poor schoolmaster's wife in a very tinycottage?"
To my joy and surprise, Ruby suddenly seized both my hands in hers,kissed me twice of her own accord, and began to cry as if nothing couldstop her. "Then you do really and truly love me," she said through hertears, holding fast to m
y hands all the time; "then you're reallywilling to make this great sacrifice for me!"
"Ruby," I said, "my darling, don't excite yourself so. And indeed itisn't a very great sacrifice either, for I hate the name so much Ihardly know whether I could ever have endured to bear it."
"You shan't bear it," Ruby cried, eagerly, now laughing and clapping herhands above me. "You shan't bear it, and yet you shall have your UncleAikin's money all the same for all that."
"Why, what on earth do you mean, Ruby?" I asked in amazement. "Surely,my darling, you can't understand how strict the terms of the willactually are. I'm afraid you have been deluding yourself into a beliefin some impossible compromise. But you must make your mind up to onething at once, that unless I call myself Aikin-Payne, you'll have tolive the rest of your life as a poor schoolmaster's wife. Thenext-of-kin will be sharp enough in coming down upon the money."
Ruby looked at me and laughed and clapped her hands again. "But whatwould you say, Mr. Payne," she said with a smile that dried up all hertears, "what would you say if you heard that the next-of-kin was--who doyou think?--why me, sir, me, Ruby Estcourt?"
I could hardly believe my ears. "You, Ruby?" I cried in my astonishment."You! How do you know? Are you really sure of it?"
Ruby put a lawyer's letter into my hand, signed by a famous firm in thecity. "Read that," she said simply. I read it through, and saw in amoment that what Ruby said was the plain truth of it.
"So you want to do your future husband out of the twelve hundred ayear!" I said, smiling and kissing her.
"No," Ruby answered, as she pressed my hand gently. "It shall be settledon you, since I know you were ready to give it up for my sake. And thereshall be no more Aikin-Paynes henceforth and for ever."
There was never a prettier or more blushing bride than dear little Rubythat day six weeks.