Quite simple and unaffected
Ruby seemed, though she had passed most of her lifetime in the
too-knowing atmosphere of Continental hotels, among that cosmopolitan
public which is so very sharp-sighted that it fancies it can see
entirely through such arrant humbug as honour in men and maidenly
reserve in women. Still, from that world Ruby Estcourt had somehow
managed to keep herself quite unspotted; and a simpler, prettier, more
natural little fairy you wouldn't find anywhere in the English villages
of 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 Ruby
Estcourt--that I walked up and down on the terrace as long as they would
let me; and I was really sorry when good Mrs. Shackleford at last
suggested 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 a
moment as to my name, said quite simply and naturally, "Why, you haven't
yet 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 were
Miss Estcourt, I ought to have mentioned in return that my own name was
Aikin-Payne, Theodore Aikin-Payne, if you please: may I give you a
card?" "Aching Pain!" Ruby said, with a smile. "Did I hear you right? Aching
Pain, 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 put
that odd misinterpretation upon it for the rest of my days. "Not Aching
Pain, but Aikin-Payne, Miss Estcourt. A-i-k-i-n, Aikin, the Aikins of
Staffordshire; P-a-y-n-e, Payne, the Paynes of Surrey. My original
surname was Payne, a surname that I venture to say I'm a little proud
of; but my uncle, Mr. Aikin, from whom I inherit property," I thought
that was rather a good way of putting it, "wished me to adopt his family
name in addition to my own--in fact, made it a condition, _sine quâ
non_, 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 was
very foolish of me; but really, you know, it _does_ sound so very
ludicrous, doesn't it now?" I bit my lip, and tried to smile back again. Absurd that a man should be
made miserable about such a trifle; and yet I will freely confess that
at that moment, in spite of my uncle's twelve hundred a year, I felt
utterly 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 two
names over to herself just now, that she seemed to find the combination
a familiar one? I really didn't feel sure about it; but it certainly
did sound as if she had once known something about the Paynes or the
Aikins. Ah, well! there are lots of Paynes and Aikins in the world, no
doubt; but alas! there is only one of them doomed to go through life
with the absurd label of an Aikin-Payne fastened upon his unwilling
shoulders. III. "Good morning, Mr.--Mr. Aikin-Payne," said Ruby Estcourt, stumbling
timidly over the name, as we met in the _salle-à-manger_ at breakfast
next day. "I hope you don't feel any the worse for the chilly air last
evening." I bowed slightly. "You seem to have some difficulty in remembering my
full name, Miss Estcourt," I said suggestively. "Suppose you call me
simply Mr. Payne. I've been accustomed to it till quite lately, and to
tell you the truth, I don't altogether relish the new addition." "I should think not, indeed," Ruby answered frankly. "I never heard such
a ridiculous combination in all my life before. I'm sure your uncle must
have been a perfect old bear to impose it upon you." "It was certainly rather cruel of him," I replied, as carelessly as I
could, "or at least rather thoughtless. I dare say, though, the
absurdity of the two names put together never struck him. What are you
going to do with yourselves to-day, Mr. Shackleford? Everybody at Cannes
has nothing to do but to amuse themselves, I suppose?" Mr. Shackleford answered that they were going to drive over in the
morning 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 have
suited my book better. I was alone, I wanted society and amusement, and
I had never seen a prettier girl than Ruby Estcourt. Here was the very
thing I needed, ready cut out to my hand by propitious fortune. I found
out as time went on that Mr. Shackleford, being a person of limited
income, and a bad walker, had only one desire in life, which was to get
somebody else to pay half his carriage fares for him by arrangement. We
went to a great many places together, and he always divided the expenses
equally between us, although I ought only to have paid a quarter, as his
party consisted of three people, while I was one solitary bachelor. This
apparent anomaly he got over on the ingenious ground that if I had taken
a carriage by myself it would have cost me just twice as much. However,
as I was already decidedly anxious for pretty little Ruby Estcourt's
society, this question of financial detail did not weigh heavily upon
me. Besides, a man who has just come into twelve hundred a year can
afford to be generous in the matter of hackney carriages. We had a delightful drive along the shore of that beautiful blue gulf to
Vallauris, and another delightful drive back again over the hills to the
Paradis. True, old Mr. Shackleford proved rather a bore through his
anxiety to instruct me in the history and technical nature of keramic
ware in general, and of the Vallauris pottery in particular, when I
wanted rather to be admiring the glimpses of Bordighera and the Cap St.
Martin and the snow-clad summits of the Maritime Alps with Ruby
Estcourt. But in spite of all drawbacks--and old Mr. Shackleford with
his universal information really _was_ a serious drawback--I thoroughly
enjoyed that first morning by the lovely Mediterranean. Ruby herself was
absolutely charming. Such a light, bright, fairy-like little person,
moving among the priceless vases and tazzas at Clément Massier's as if
she were an embodied zephyr, too gentle even to knock them over with a
whiff of her little Rampoor shawl--but there, I can't describe her, and
I won't attempt it. Ruby, looking over my shoulder at this moment, says
I 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 the
carriage-sharing fraud, dragged me about the country to every available
point of view or object of curiosity within ten miles of the Square
Brougham.