"My dear Mr. Payne," said my deceased uncle's lawyer with an emphatic
wag of his forefinger, "I assure you there's no help for it. The
language of the will is perfectly simple and explicit. Either you must
do as your late uncle desired, or you must let the property go to the
representative of his deceased wife's family."
"But surely, Blenkinsopp," I said deprecatingly, "we might get the Court
of Chancery to set it aside, as being contrary to public policy, or
something of that sort. I know you can get the Court of Chancery to
affirm almost anything you ask them, especially if it's something a
little abstruse and out of the common; it gratifies the Court's opinion
of its own acumen. Now, clearly, it's contrary to public policy that a
man should go and make his own nephew ridiculous by his last will and
testament, 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 family
solicitors), "bless my soul, my dear sir, the thing's simply impossible.
Here's your uncle, the late Anthony Aikin, Esquire, deceased, a person
of sound mind and an adult male above the age of twenty-one years--to be
quite accurate, _oetatis suoe_, seventy-eight--makes his will, and
duly attests the same in the presence of two witnesses; everything quite
in order: not a single point open to exception in any way. Well, he
gives and bequeaths to his nephew, Theodore Payne, gentleman--that's
you--after a few unimportant legacies, the bulk of his real and personal
estate, provided only that you adopt the surname of Aikin, prefixed
before and in addition to your own surname of Payne. But,--and this is
very important,--if you don't choose to adopt and use the said surname
of Aikin, in the manner hereinbefore recited, then and in that case, my
dear sir--why, then and in that case, as clear as currant jelly, the
whole said residue of his real and personal estate is to go to the heir
or heirs-at-law of the late Amelia Maria Susannah Aikin, wife of the
said Anthony Aikin, Esquire, deceased. Nothing could be simpler or
plainer in any way, and there's really nothing on earth for you to do
except to choose between the two alternatives so clearly set before you
by your deceased uncle."
"But look here, you know, Blenkinsopp," I said appealingly, "no fellow
can 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 the
Aikin, and call myself Payne-Aikin, eh? That wouldn't be quite so
absurdly suggestive of a perpetual toothache. But Aikin-Payne! Why, the
comic papers would take it up immediately. Every footman in London would
grin audibly when he announced me. I fancy I hear the fellows this very
moment: flinging open the door with a violent attempt at seriousness,
and shouting out, 'Mr. Haching-Pain, ha, ha, ha!' with a loud guffaw
behind the lintel. It would be simply unendurable!"
"My dear sir," answered the unsympathetic Blenkinsopp (most
unsympathetic profession, an attorney's, really), "the law doesn't take
into consideration the question of the probable conduct of footmen. It
must be Aikin-Payne or nothing. I admit the collocation does sound a
little ridiculous, to be sure; but your uncle's will is perfectly
unequivocal upon the subject--in fact, ahem! I drew it up myself, to say
the truth; and unless you call yourself Aikin-Payne, 'in the manner
hereinbefore recited,' then and in that case, observe (there's no
deception), then and in that case the heir or heirs-at-law of the late
Amelia Maria Susannah aforesaid will be entitled to benefit under the
will as fully in every respect as if the property was bequeathed
directly to him, her, or them, by name, and to no other person."
"And who the dickens are these heirs-at-law, Blenkinsopp?" I ventured to
ask after a moment's pause, during which the lawyer had refreshed
himself 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 keep
a genealogical table and full pedigree of all the second cousins of all
my clients hung up conspicuously in some spare corner of my brain, do
you, eh? Upon my soul I really haven't the slightest notion. All I know
about 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 to
her at any time. 'But where she's gone and how she fares, nobody knows
and nobody cares,' sir, as the poet justly remarks."
I was not previously acquainted with the poet's striking observation on
this matter, but I didn't stop to ask Mr. Blenkinsopp in what author's
work these stirring lines had originally appeared. I was too much
occupied with other thoughts at that moment to pursue my investigations
into their authorship and authenticity. "Upon my word, Blenkinsopp," I
said, "I've really half a mind to shy the thing up and go on with my
schoolmastering."
Mr. Blenkinsopp shrugged his shoulders. "Believe me, my dear young
friend," he said sententiously, "twelve hundred a year is not to be
sneezed at. Without inquiring too precisely into the exact state of your
existing finances, I should be inclined to say your present engagement
can't be worth to you more than three hundred a year."