University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
HOFFLAND MAKES HIS WILL.

WHEN they had reached the open street, and the
crowd of curious students were no longer visible,
Hoffland, growing gradually calmer, and with faint
smiles, related to his companion what had just occurred;
that is to say, in general terms—rather in substance,
it must be confessed, than in detail. Mr. Denis and
himself, he said, had at first commenced conversing in a
very friendly manner; the conversation had then grown
animated, and Mr. Denis had become somewhat excited;
then, at the conclusion of one of his (Hoffland's)
observations, he had declared himself deeply offended,
and further, announced his intention of dispatching a
mortal defiance to him on the ensuing morning.

Mowbray in vain endeavored to arrive at the particulars
of the affair. Hoffland obstinately evaded detailing
the cause of the quarrel.

“Well, Charles,” said Mowbray, “you are certainly
unlucky—to quarrel so quickly at college; but——”

“Was it my fault?” replied the boy, in a reproachful
tone.

“I don't know; your relation is so general, you
descend so little to particulars, that I have not been able
to form an opinion of the amount of blame which attaches
to each.”

“Blame!” said Hoffland. “Oh, Ernest! you are not
a true friend.”

“Why, Charles?”

“You do not espouse my part.”

Mowbray uttered a sigh of dissatisfaction.

“Do you know,” he said, “that my place is rather
yonder, as the friend and adviser of Denis?”

“Well, sir,” said Hoffland, in a hurt tone, “as you
please.”

Mowbray said calmly:

“No, I will not embrace your advice; I will not
leave you, a mere youth, alone, to go and range myself
on the side of Denis, though we have been intimate
friends for years. He has numbers of acquaintances
and friends; you could count yours upon the fingers of
one hand.”

“On the little finger of one hand, say,” Hoffland
replied, regaining his good humor.

“Well,” Mowbray said calmly, “then there is all the
more reason for my espousing your cause—since you
hint that I am the little finger.”

“No, I will promote you,” Hoffland answered, smiling;
“you shall have this finger, one rank above the
little finger, you see.”

And he held up his left hand, touching the third
finger.

Then the boy turned away and laughed as merrily and
carelessly as before the disagreeable events of the
evening.

Mowbray looked at him with a faint smile.

“Youth, youth!” he murmured; “youth, so full of
joy and lightness—so careless and gay-hearted! Here

is a man—or a child—who in twenty-four hours may be
lying cold in death yonder, and he smiles and even
laughs. Hoffland,” he added, “let us cease our discussions
in relation to the origin of this unhappy affair, and
endeavor to decide upon the course to be pursued.
With myself the matter stands thus: I have known
Denis for years; he is one of my best friends; no one
loves me more, I think——”

“Except one,” said Hoffland, laughing.

“My dear Charles,” said Mowbray seriously, “let us
speak gravely. This affair is serious, since it involves
two lives—especially serious to me, since it involves the
life of a friend of many years' standing, and no less the
life of one I have promised to assist, advise, and guide—
yourself.”

“Oh,” said Hoffland, with a hurt expression, “you
call Mr. Denis your friend, while I—I am only `one
you have promised to advise.' Ernest, that is cruel;
you have not learned yet how sensitive I am!”

And Hoffland turned away.

“Really, I am dealing with a child,” murmured Mowbray;
“let me summon all my patience.”

And he said aloud:

“My dear Hoffland, I am not one of those men who
make violent protestations and feel sudden and excessive
friendships. Friendship, with me, is a tree of slow
growth; and I even now wonder at the position you
have been able to take in my regard, upon such a slight
acquaintance. There is a frank word—all words between
friends should be frank. There, I call you my
friend—you are such: does that please you?”

“Oh, very much,” said Hoffland, smiling and banishing

his sad expression instantly; “I know you are the
noblest and most sincere of men.”

And the boy held out to his companion a small hand,
which returned the pressure of Mowbray's slightly, and
was then quietly withdrawn.

“Well, now,” said Mowbray, “let us come back to
this affair. Denis will send you a challenge?”

“He says so.”

“Well; then he will keep his promise.”

“Of course he will act as a man of honor throughout,”
said Hoffland, laughing; “I am sure of that, because he
is your friend.”

“Pray drop these polite speeches, and let us talk
plainly.”

“Very well, Ernest; but Denis is a good fellow, eh?”
asked Hoffland, smiling.

“Yes.”

“Brave?”

“Wholly fearless.”

“A good swordsman?”

“Very.”

“And with the pistol?” asked Hoffland, laughing.

“The best shot in college,” returned Mowbray,
pleased in spite of himself at finding his companion so
calm and smiling.

Hoffland placed his thumb absently upon his chin—
leaned upon it, and after a moment's reflection said in a
business tone:

“I think I'll choose swords.”

“You fence?”

“I? Why, my dear Ernest, have you never seen me
with a foil in my hand?”

“Never.”

“Indeed? Well, I fence like the admirable Crichton
himself. It was some allusion to that celebrated gentleman,
in connection with myself, by the by, which excited
Mr. Denis's anger.”

“How, pray?”

“Well, well, it would embarrass me to explain. Let
us dismiss Mr. Crichton. My mind is made up—I
choose short-swords, for I was always afraid of pistols.”

Mowbray looked with curiosity at his companion.

“Afraid?” he said.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Hoffland; “you will not believe
me, but I never could fire a pistol or a gun without
shutting my eyes, and dropping it when it went off!”

With which words Hoffland burst into laughter.

Mowbray saw that it would be necessary to check the
mercurial humor of his companion. He therefore suppressed
the smile which rose unconsciously to his lips
when Hoffland laughed so merrily, and said gravely:

“Charles, are you prepared for a mortal duel?”

“Perfectly,” said Hoffland, with great simplicity.

“Have you made your will?”

“My will? Fie, Mr. Lawyer! Why, I am a minor.”

“Minors make wills,” said Mowbray; “and I advise
you, if you are determined to encounter Mr. Denis, to
make your will, and put in writing whatever you wish
done.”

“But what have I to leave to any one?” said Hoffland,
affecting annoyance. “Ah, yes!” he added, “I
am richer than I supposed. Well, now, this terrible
affair may take place before I can make my arrangements;

so I will, with your permission, make a nuncupative
will—I believe nuncupative is the word, but I am
not sure.”

Mowbray sighed; he found himself powerless before
this incorrigible light-heartedness, and had not the resolution
to check it. He began to reflect wistfully upon
the future: he already saw that boyish face pale and
bloody, but still smiling—that slender figure stretched
upon the earth—a mere boy, dead before his prime.

Hoffland went on, no longer laughing, but uttering
sighs, and affecting sudden and profound emotion.

“This is a serious thing, Ernest,” he said; “when a
man thinks of his will, he stops laughing. I beg therefore
that you will not laugh, nor interrupt me, while I
dispose of the trifling property of which I am possessed.”

Mowbray sighed.

Hoffland echoed this sigh, and went on:

“First: As I have no family, and may confine my
bequests wholly to my present dear companions, acquaintances,
and friends—first, I leave my various suits
of apparel, which may be found at my lodgings, to my
dear companions aforesaid; begging that they may be
distributed after the following fashion. To the student
who is observed to shed the most tears when he receives
the intelligence of my unhappy decease, I give my suit
of silver velvet, with chased gold buttons, and silk embroidery.
The cocked hat and feather, rosetted shoes
with diamond buckles, and the flowered satin waistcoat,
go with this. Also six laced pocket-handkerchiefs,
which I request my dear tender-hearted friend to use
on all occasions when he thinks of me, to dry his eyes
with.

“Item: My fine suit of Mecklenburg silk, with silver
buttons, I give to the friend who expresses in words
the most poignant regret. I hold that tears are more
genuine than words, for which reason the best weeper
has been preferred, and so has received the velvet suit.
Nevertheless, the loudest lamenter is not unworthy; and
so I repeat that he shall have the silk suit. If there be
none who weep or lament me, I direct that these two
suits shall be given to the janitor of the college, the old
negro Fairfax, whose duty ever thereafter shall be to
praise and lament me.

“Second: I give my twelve other suits of various
descriptions, more or less rich, to the members of the
`Anti-Stamp-Act League,' of which I am a member.
This with my love; and I request that, whenever they
speak of me, they may say, `Hoffland, our lamented,
deceased brother, was a man of expanded political ideas,
and a true friend of liberty.'

“Third: I give all my swords, pistols, guns, carbines,
short swords, broad swords, poniards, and spurs, to my
friend Mr. Denis, who has had the misfortune to kill
me. It is my request that he will not lament me, or
feel any pangs of conscience. So far from dying with
the thought that he has been unjust to me, I declare that
his conduct has been worthy of the Chevalier Bayard;
and I desire that the above implements of war may be
used to exterminate even the whole world, should they
give him like cause of quarrel.

“Fourth: I give my books to those I am most intimately
acquainted with:—my Elzevir Horace to T.
Randolph—he will find translations of the best odes
upon the fly leaves, much better than any he could make;

my Greek books, the Iliad, Graeca Minora, Herodotus,
etc., which are almost entirely free from dog-ears and
thumb-marks, as I have never opened them, I give to
L. Burwell, requesting that he will thenceforth apply
himself to Greek in earnest. My Hebrew books I
give to Fairfax, the janitor, as he is the only one
in the college who will not pretend to understand
them; thus, much deception will be warded off and
prevented.

“Fifth: I give and bequeath to the gentleman who
passed us this afternoon on horseback, and who is
plainly deep in love with some one—I believe he is
known as Mr. Jacques—I bequeath to him my large
volume of love-songs in manuscript, begging him to read
them for his interest and instruction, and never, under
any circumstances, to copy them upon embossed paper
and send them to his lady-love, pretending that they are
original, as I have known many forlorn lovers to do
before this.

“Sixth: I bequeath to Miss Lucy Mowbray, the sister
of my beloved friend, my manuscript `Essay upon the
Art of Squeezing a Lady's Hand;' begging that she will
read it attentively, and never suffer her hand to be
squeezed in any other manner than that which I have
therein pointed out.

“Seventh: I bequeath my `Essay upon the Hebrew
Letter Aleph' to the College of William and Mary,
requesting that it shall be disposed of to some scientific
body in Europe, for not less than twenty thousand
pounds—that sum to be dedicated to the founding of a
new professorship—to be called the Hoffland Professorship
for the instruction of young men going to woo their

sweethearts. And the professor shall in all cases be a
woman.

“Eighth: Having disposed of my personal, I now come
to add a disposition also of my invisible and more valuable
property remaining. I bequeath my memory to
the three young ladies to whom I am at present engaged
—begging them to deal charitably with what I leave
to them; and if harsh thoughts ever rise in their hearts,
to remember how beautiful they are, and how utterly
impossible it was for their poor friend to resist yielding
to that triple surpassing loveliness. If this message is
distinctly communicated to them, they will not be angry,
but ever after revere and love my memory, as that of
the truest and most rational of men.

“Ninth: I leave to my executor a lock of my hair,
which he shall carry ever after in his bosom—take
thence and kiss at least once every day—at the same
time murmuring, `Poor Charles! he loved me very
much!'

“Tenth, and last: I bequeath my heart to Mr. Ernest
Mowbray. I mean the spiritual portion—my love.
And if I should make him my executor, I hereby
declare that clause ninth shall apply to him, and be
carried out in full; declaring that he may utter the
words therein written with a good conscience; and
declaring further, that my poverty alone induces me
to make him so trifling a bequest as this, in the tenth
clause expressed. Moreover, he had full possession of
it formerly during my life-time; and, finally, I make
him my executor.

“That is all,” said Hoffland, laughing and turning
away his head; “a capital will, I think!”

Mowbray shook his head.

“I have listened to your jesting in silence, Charles,”
he said, “because I thought it best to let your merry
mood expend itself——”

“I was never graver in my life!”

“Then you were never grave at all. Now let us
seriously consult about this unhappy affair. Ah, duelling,
duelling! how wicked, childish, illogical, despotic,
bloody, and at the same time ludicrous it is! Come, you
have lost your key, you say—we cannot go to your lodgings:
let us find a room in the `Raleigh,' and arrange
this most unhappy affair. Come.”

And, followed by Hoffland, Mowbray took his way
sadly toward the “Raleigh.”