“It is because I am poor,” he explained, “that I refuse to profit by your kindness—though I feel it gratefully.”
I failed to understand him—and said so plainly.
“You will understand this,” he resumed; “I should never recover my sense of degradation, if a mercenary motive on my side was associated with our friendship. Don’t say it’s impossible! You know as well as I do that appearances would be against me, in the eyes of the world. Besides, I don’t want money; my own small income is enough for me. Make me your executor if you like, and leave me the customary present of five hundred pounds. If you exceed that sum I declare on my word of honor that I will not touch one farthing of it.” He took my hand, and pressed it fervently. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Never let us speak of this again!”
I understood that I must yield—or lose my friend.
In now making my will, I accordingly appointed Rothsay one of my executors, on the terms that he had prescribed. The minor legacies having been next duly reduced to writing, I left the bulk of my fortune to public charities.
My lawyer laid the fair copy of the will on my table.
“A dreary disposition of property for a man of your age,” he said, “I hope to receive a new set of instructions before you are a year older.”
“What instructions?” I asked.
“To provide for your wife and children,” he answered.
My wife and children! The idea seemed to be so absurd that I burst out laughing. It never occurred to me that there could be any absurdity from my own point of view.