by A. A. Milne
THE HEIR
Mr. Trevor Pilkington, of the well-known firm of Trevor Pilkington,fixed his horn spectacles carefully upon his nose, took a pinch ofsnuff, sneezed twice, gave his papers a preliminary rustle, lookedslowly round the crowded room, and began to read the will. Through fortyyears of will-reading his method of procedure had always been the same.But Jack Summers, who was sharing an ottoman with two of the outdoorservants, thought that Mr. Pilkington's mannerisms were designedspecially to annoy him, and he could scarcely control his impatience.
Yet no one ever had less to hope from the reading of a will than Jack.For the first twenty years of his life his parents had brought him up tobelieve that his cousin Cecil was heir to his Uncle Alfred's enormousfortune, and for the subsequent ten years his cousin Cecil had broughthis Uncle Alfred up in the same belief. Indeed, Cecil had even roughedout one or two wills for signature, and had offered to help hisuncle--who, however, preferred to do these things by himself--to holdthe pen. Jack could not help feeling glad that his cousin was not thereto parade his approaching triumph; a nasty cold, caught a weekpreviously in attending his uncle to the Lord Mayor's Show, having keptCecil in bed.
"To the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, ten shillingsand sixpence"--the words came to him in a meaningless drone--"to theFresh Air Fund, ten shillings and sixpence; to the King Edward HospitalFund, ten shillings and sixpence"--was _all_ the money going incharities?--"to my nephew Cecil Linley, who has taken such care ofme"--Mr. Pilkington hesitated--"four shillings and ninepence; to mynephew, John Summers, whom, thank Heaven, I have never seen, fivemillion pounds----"
A long whistle of astonishment came from the ottoman. The solicitorlooked up with a frown.
"It's the surprise," apologised Jack. "I hardly expected so much. Ithought that that brute--I mean I thought my cousin Cecil hadnobbled--that is to say, was getting it all."
"The late Mr. Alfred made three wills," said the lawyer in a moment ofexpansion. "In the first he left his nephew Cecil a legacy of oneshilling and tenpence, in the second he bequeathed him a sum of threeshillings and twopence, and in the last he set aside the amount of fourshillings and ninepence. The evidence seems to show that your cousin wasrapidly rising in his uncle's estimation. You, on the other hand, havealways been a legatee to the amount of five million pounds; but in thelast will there is a trifling condition attached." He resumed hispapers. "To my nephew, John Summers, five million pounds, on conditionthat, within one year from the date of my death, he marries MaryHuggins, the daughter of my old friend, now deceased, William Huggins."
Jack Summers rose proudly from his end of the ottoman.
"Thanks," he said curtly. "That tears it. It's very kind of the oldgentleman, but I prefer to choose a wife for myself." He bowed to thecompany and strode from the room.
. . . . .
It was a cloudless August day. In the shadow of the great elms thatfringed the Sussex lane a girl sat musing; on its side in the grass ather feet a bicycle, its back wheel deflated. She sat on the grassy bankwith her hat in her lap, quite content to wait until the first passer-bywith a repairing outfit in his pocket should offer to help her.
"Can I be of any assistance?" said a manly voice, suddenly waking herfrom her reverie.
She turned with a start. The owner of the voice was dressed in a stylishknickerbocker suit; his eyes were blue, his face was tanned, his hairwas curly, and he was at least six foot tall. So much she noticed at aglance.
"My bicycle," she said; "punctured."
In a minute he was on his knees beside the machine. A rapid examinationconvinced him that she had not over-stated the truth, and he whippedfrom his pocket the repairing outfit without which he never travelled.
"I can do it in a moment," he said. "At least, if you can just help me alittle."
As she knelt beside him he could not fail to be aware of her wonderfulbeauty. The repairs, somehow, took longer than he thought. Their headswere very close together all the time, and indeed on one occasion cameviolently into contact.
"There," he said at last, getting up and barking his shin against thepedal. "Conf---- That will be all right."
"Thank you," she said tenderly.
He looked at her without disguising his admiration; a tall, straightfigure in the sunlight, its right shin rubbing itself vigorously againstits left calf.
"It's absurd," he said at last; "I feel as if I've known you for years.And, anyway, I'm certain I've seen you before somewhere."
"Did you ever go to _The Seaside Girl_?" she asked eagerly.
"Often."
"Do you remember the Spanish princess who came on at the beginning ofthe Second Act and said, 'Wow-wow!' to the Mayor?"
"Why, of course! And you had your photograph in _The Sketch_, _TheTatler_, _The Bystander_, and _The Sporting and Dramatic_ all in thesame week?"
The girl nodded happily. "Yes, I'm Marie Huguenot!" she said.
"And I'm Jack Summers; so now we know each other." He took her hand."Marie," he said, "ever since I have mended your bicycle--I mean, eversince I have known you, I have loved you. Will you marry me?"
"Jack!" she cooed. "You did say 'Jack,' didn't you?"
"Bless you, Marie. We shall be very poor, dear. Will you mind?"
"Not with you, Jack. At least, not if you mean what _I_ mean by 'verypoor.'"
"Two thousand a year."
"Yes, that's about what I meant."
Jack took her in his arms.
"And Mary Huggins can go and marry the Pope," he said, with a smile.
With a look of alarm in her eyes she pushed him suddenly away from her.There was a crash as his foot went through the front wheel of thebicycle.
"Mary Huggins?" she cried.
"Yes, I was left a fortune on condition that I married a person calledMary Huggins. Absurd! As though----"
"How much?"
"Oh, quite a lot if it wasn't for these confounded death duties. Fivemillion pounds. You see----"
"Jack, Jack!" cried the girl. "Don't you understand? _I_ am MaryHuggins."
He looked at her in amazement.
"You said your name was Marie Huguenot," he said slowly.
"My stage name, dear. Naturally I couldn't--I mean, one must--you knowhow particular managers are. When father died and I had to go on thestage for a living----"
"Marie, my darling!"
Mary rose and picked up her bicycle. The air had gone out of the backwheel again, and there were four spokes broken, but she did not heed it.
"You must write to your lawyer to-night," she said. "_Won't_ he besurprised?"
But, being a great reader of the magazines, he wasn't.