Lucy sat aghast;
then inquired in tender anxiety what was the matter.
Angry explanations are apt to be dark ones. "It is a confounded
shame--it is a trick, child--it is a do."
"Ah! what is that, uncle? 'a do'?--'a do'?"
"Yes, 'a do.' He knew I hated figures; can't bear the sight of them,
and the cursed responsibility of adding them up right."
"But who knew all this?"
"He came over here bursting with health, and asked me to be one of his
executors--mind, one. I consented on a distinct understanding I was
never to be called upon to act. He was twenty years my junior, and
like so much mahogany. It was just a form; I did it to soothe a man
who called himself my friend, and set his mind at rest."
"But, uncle dear, I don't understand even now. Can it be possible that
a friend has abused your good nature?"
"A little," with an angry sneer.
"Has he betrayed your confidence?"
"Hasn't he?"
"Oh dear! What has he done?"
"Died, that is all," snarled the victim.
"Oh, uncle! Poor man!"
"Poor man, no doubt. But how about poor me? Why, it turns out I am
sole executor."
"But, dear uncle, how could the poor soul help dying?"
"That is not candid, Lucy," said Mr. Fountain, severely. "Did ever I
say he could help dying? But he could help coming here under false
colors, a mahogany face, and trapping his friend."
"Uncle, what is the use--your trying to play the misanthrope with me,
who know how good you are, in spite of your pretenses to the contrary?
To hide your emotion from your poor niece, you go into a feigned fury,
and all the time you know how sorry you are your poor friend is gone.
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