University of Virginia Library

12. XII.
Squire Bodgers Makes a Will.

IT is a disagreeable thing for a bachelor to make
his will. He is disposed to put it off to a very
late day. It implies a certain hopelessness of any
nearer ties to kindred than belong to his present
lonely estate. It is a tacit acknowledgment that
the world of feeling has waned; that the hazards
of youth have been fruitless; that the path
lies straight, and short, to the end. No man likes
to feel this; still less does he like to act as if he
felt it.

It is a sad thing that a man cannot carry a few
ten per cent. paying stocks out of the world with
him. It would be a great relief to many of our
brokers and capitalists. It would soften the way
of a vast many people to the grave. It would
excite brilliant expectations. I think I know of
several, ladies and gentlemen, who, in that event,
might hope to “make a sensation,” in the other
world.

I may venture to say, however, that such a thing
cannot be done. If the transfer could be accomplished
anywhere, it could be accomplished in Wall
street. It cannot be done in Wall street. And the
worst of the matter is, that we do not find out the
impossibility of the thing, until we come very near
to the jumping-off place. Then, when the melancholy
truth forces itself upon us, that all our stocks
will be at a cent. per cent. discount in the other
world, we conceive the idea of being generous. It
would be an odd sort of generosity, if it were not
so very popular.

To return, however, to Mr. Truman Bodgers:
there was a strong reason for his making his will,
independent of any mistrust he might have about
carrying his property with him. Without a will,
his estate, which, as I have already hinted, is large,
would follow the leading of the law, and revert

to certain heirs, about whom Mr. Bodgers knew
nothing.

To explain this extraordinary circumstance,
which, I frankly confess, seems more like a fiction
of the novel-writers than the simple incident of a
family narrative, I must be suffered to go back
a step or two in the history of Mr. Bodgers.

Mr. Bodgers had a brother much older than
himself, who died long ago. This brother, very
much against the wish of old Mr. Bodgers, had
married a dashing lady of the town, who survived
him in a long and blooming widowhood, relieved
by the presence of one little girl, and by the added
charms of a life in Paris. The old gentleman being
a sturdy disciplinarian, and having cut off the son,
was very little disposed to follow the widow to
Paris. Indeed, report said she led an evil life,
and that, under a changed name, she gave herself
up to such of the gayeties of French life as are
very apt to play the mischief with a self-indulgent
woman.

My hero, Truman Bodgers, grew up with very
little knowledge of his elder brother, and with
far less of the widow; who, long before the
younger brother had arrived at manhood, had
disappeared, under her assumed name, in the
coteries of the German springs. Rumor had

whispered several times of the marriage of the
daughter to some needy American adventurer; but
the alliance was not one which would warrant
boastfulness, even in an adventurer. The whole
connection had long ago proved itself an unwelcome
one to Mr. Bodgers, and it is not strange that he
should banish it from his thought in the drafting
of his will.

Having thus cleared up, so far as I am able,
this bit of family history, I take the liberty of
introducing Ebenezer Bivins, Esq., legal adviser
of Mr. Bodgers, and Justice of the Peace.

Mr. Bivins is a lean, lank man, in silver-bowed
spectacles, and a snuff-colored wig. His spectacles
ordinarily repose a long way down upon the bridge
of a very sharp nose, yet cheerfully red. His wig
is stiff, and glides off over a somewhat greasy coat-collar,
in one of those graceful curves which belong
to the sheet-iron roofs of a Chinese veranda. He
has sharp speech, and a sharp laugh, although a
very self-possessed one.

He has a respect for Newtown, as the home and
birth-place of Mr. Bivins; he has a respect for the
world and for nature, as having been the playground
and the nurse of Mr. Bivins, when in
infancy. He has a respect for summer, since it is a
season which allows Mr. Bivins to economize in

fuel; he has a respect, too, for winter, since it
is a season which allows Mr. Bivins to enjoy that
triumph over the elements and nature, which his
foresight and prudence have prepared.

You would naturally (and correctly) suppose
him to be the father of a lean young lady, of
hopeless maidenhood and sharp voice, who is
extremely neat, who wears a quilted petticoat of
yellow and red, who delights in boxing the ears
of the small boys of her class in Sunday-school, and
who boasts the name of Mehitabel Bivins.

It has always been a wonder to me, and I dare
say always will be, how any woman in the world
could commit the absurdity of ever loving such a
man as Ebenezer Bivins, or indeed any one of that
class of men. It has cost me serious reflection.
How is it possible, I have thought, for a woman to
fondle, in the loving way the poets speak of, a man
in a snuff-colored wig, projecting at such a sharp
angle, over a greasy coat-collar? How can it be
possible to kindle any romantic enthusiasm about
such a peaked, red-colored nose, or such threadbare
pantaloons, so short in the legs?

Yet Mr. Bivins and Mrs. Bivins have no doubt
had their poetic transports; they have loved, been
coy, advanced, retreated, cooed, kissed, and been
married, like all the rest of the world. Still, I cannot

forbear wondering. I waste a great deal of
wonder in the same way. I am not ambitious of
becoming the subject of a similar wonder.

Mr. Bivins is sitting before an open wood-fire,
where two or three sticks are smouldering sulkily,
throwing out a little smoke over the front of the
stove, and a little smoke out of the stove-joints
(poorly calked with burnt putty), and a little more
smoke out of the easy scape-hole to the chimney.
The tall book-case, with its reports and statutes, is
comfortably browned with smoke; and the baize-topped
desk, and the leather-bottomed chairs, and
the round interest-table hanging on the wall, and
the Christian Almanac, and the cotton umbrella
in the corner, and the snuff-colored-wig of Mr.
Bivins, all smell of smoke.

The ashes in the stove are crusted over, and
honey-combed, like volcanic tufa, with old discharges
of tobacco-juice; and the andirons show
ancient, ashy drapery, formed by the continuous
tobacco-drip of gone-by days and months. A few
russet apple-parings and cores, half covered with
soot, relieve the volcanic aspect of the ashes; and
a broken ink-bottle rises from the débris, like some
monument of art amid the ruins of Pompeii.

Mr Bivins is most happy to see Squire Bodgers.
He removes his spectacles, gives his pantaloons a

toilet hitch in a downward direction, and passing
his hand with a rapid precautionary movement over
the surface of his wig, throws himself back in his
chair, with an air, as much as to say, “You are
welcome, Mr. Bodgers, for a handsome consideration,
to the present employ of the superior legal
acquirements of Squire Bivins.”

Mr. Bodgers draws up his chair, touches Mr.
Bivins upon the knee, and drops a quiet gesture
toward a young man busily writing in the corner.

“Ah, Mr. Flint, will you be kind enough to step
into the inner office for a few moments?”

Mr. Flint retires to the inner office; but the
partition is thin; and busy as he tries to make
himself with his own thoughts, the frequent mention
of Kitty Fleming, coupled with “thousands,” and
“seven per cents.,” and “event of her death,” and
“event of my death,” and “Mrs. Fleming,” disturbs
him very strangely.

The truth is, Mr. Harry Flint, for this is no
other, with few friends in the world, living with an
old aunt, and having none to care for, save a sweet
wee bit of a sister who clings to him every morning,
and who welcomes him every evening with a pair
of snowy little arms, and a kiss—Harry Flint, I
say, has been foolish enough to conceive a strong
fondness for Kitty Fleming. He has done this,

notwithstanding he has heard all the rumors about
herself and Mr. Bodgers; he has done this, notwithstanding
she has gone away to find new and more
brilliant favorites in the city.

Entertaining such views, it is quite natural that
he should be shocked, now that he comes to over-hear,
unintentionally, some of the details of the
marriage settlement with Mr. Bodgers. Harry
Flint is not without spirit, although he has passed
his life in Newtown. Indeed, he has only lingered
there through the influence of certain attachments,
at which I have hinted.

He recalls now all Kitty's words, and her smiles,
and her leave-taking, so gentle and tremulous; and
he recalls all her little kindnesses to Bessie Flint
(as if a good-hearted girl would do any less), and
wonders if it all conveyed nothing of hope, nothing
of trust, on which he might feed?

And old Mr. Bodgers—clumsy Bodgers (guard
yourself, Harry Flint!) can it be?—can Kitty
Fleming love him? Yet he is not so old; a ripe-hearted
man; living proudly in the old paternal
mansion: Kitty would honor it; Kitty would love
it, perhaps. Kitty, Kitty! are these things worth
more to you than the overflowing fondness of a
young, strong-beating heart, aching to pour out its
fullness of love?

Harry Flint walks back and forth across the
inner office; and then he hearkens a moment.

“Kitty is a smart girl,” says Squire Bivins.

“An angel,” says Mr. Bodgers. And why should
he not say it, Mr. Harry Flint?

“She'll make a clever woman,” says Mr. Bivins.

“I hope she may, Squire Bivins; I know it,
Squire” (a strong thump upon the table here); “I
shall guard her, sir; I shall watch her; she shall
have everything heart can desire.”

Poor Harry Flint, struggling for your own support,
and that little one which Heaven has cast
upon your kind keeping, what can you offer of
worldly goods? What fancies could you indulge?
And the poor fellow tries hard to choke his sentiment
with philosophy. Could he be ungenerous
enough to tie that sweet creature to his uncertain
fortunes? But the trial is over now. The hope
that burned in him is gone out.

Yet, so strange is the lithe heart of youth, a
new one takes its place. Tied no longer to that
little corner of country, he will brave the world,
and win a fortune; and if no dearer recipient of his
bounty can be found, he will lavish it upon the
tender sister, who is growing every day in beauty
and in grace.

There is a change in Harry Flint when he goes

home that day. Not less fondly does he elasp little
Bessie; and stroking the hair from her forehead,
he repeats his kisses oftener than ever before. Our
loves are, after all, like rivers, which, if they be
shut up here and there in their courses, will flow
swift into side-channels, pushing always onward!
With the fire and pride of youth upon him, Harry
Flint decides to try his venture upon a broader
field; and in a little time his arm and heart will
struggle amid the whirl of a great city.

There is no prouder sight in this American world
of ours than that of youth flinging off all the
bondage of circumstance, trampling down, if need
be, the memory of by-gone griefs, and measuring
his fate, with a stout hand and heart, against the
roar and vices of the world. He may be sure that
singleness of purpose will bear him up, and earnestness
of endeavor will bear him on, to accomplish
just so much of work, and to win so much of
renown, as his fullest capacities can grasp. Nothing
lies in the way—thank God!—but the feebleness of
individual effort. There are no old walls of privilege
to batter down; there are no locks upon
intellectual attainment that need a golden key.
Strike out boldly, friend Harry; the world is wide;
and although the memory of a love which might
have been, may haunt your eventide hours, and

make your affections droop, warm hearts are beating
everywhere; and little blue-eyed Bessie, wearing
the mother's face, and more and more the mother's
figure, shall steal upon your remembrance, like a
golden sun of April upon the skirts of winter.

Mr. Bodgers finishes his will. He does not,
however, sign it. He is a calculating man: he will
keep it by him until the next day; some new legacy
may occur to him.

Squire Bivins, being, as he thinks, a shrewd
man, argues from all this, that Mr. Bodgers is
plainly intent upon marrying—not Kitty, but the
Widow Fleming. He even ventures to hint in a sly
way, looking very drolly over his spectacle bows,
that “the widow is an uncommonly smart sort of a
person.”

Mr. Bodgers assents gravely.

Mr. Bivins, smoothing the curve of his wig
behind, thinks “she would make a capital wife for
the Squire.”

Mr. Bodgers says, emphatically—“Fudge!”

If any widow ladies translate this expression into
a reflection upon their worth and attractions, I
shall simply say that it is a disingenuous construction.

Whatever may be thought of the Fudge, or its
significance, Mr. Bodgers certainly did walk from

the office of Mr. Bivins straight toward the home
of Mrs. Fleming. The thought of marrying her,
however, I do not think once occurred to him.
Middle-aged men, who have tender recollections of
their own, of lost ones, are not apt to fall in love
with middle-aged widows; at least such is not my
own experience.

Mr. Bodgers was anxious to have the last news
of Kitty: and he threw himself, quite at ease, into
an old arm-chair; and having placed his hat beside
him, in the methodic way that belongs to him, and
thrown his yellow bandanna within it, he listens to
Mrs. Fleming, as she reads to him a bit, here and
there, from the last letter of Kitty.

Meantime, Mr. Bodgers looks earnestly into the
fire, musing, in a philosophic vein:—how it was
once with him, and how it is once with us all:
cheer, and joy, and sadness; and then, perhaps,
decay and blight, and only glimpses of cheer; and
at length, desolation, and the end.

“I am well, and happy,” writes Kitty; “indeed,
I am only not happy when I think of the distance
that lies between us. You will smile because I
make so much of so little distance. I am no great
traveller, you know; and when I think of the
strange things here — of all the noise, and the
crowds, and the new faces, and the thronged streets—

and then, a little while after, think of the dear, quiet
home I have left, and the good friends, and the old
parlor, with its sunny blaze upon the southern window,
and the hyacinths shooting higher and higher
in the parlor warmth, and of you, dear mother,
sitting there alone, it seems a very great way off!”

“My cousins are very kind to me.”

Mr. Bodgers nods his head, as if he would say,
“No wonder.”

“Aunt Phœbe I do not see very often, nor Cousin
Wilhelmina; although they talk very kindly, more
kindly than the other cousins; but yet, I cannot
help thinking, they are not so kind. They have a
beautiful house; but I never feel at home there.
Uncle Solomon is so grave and so important that
there is no loving him, even if he were willing to be
loved.”

“Umph,” says Mr. Bodgers.

“I have a gift for you, Mamma; a rich, warm
shawl, which I am sure will keep you all the
warmer, because your own Kitty has bought it for
you. You must not think me extravagant; you
know I told you that Uncle Truman had filled my
purse for me. Is he not very kind?”

Mr. Bodgers takes occasion to look after his
yellow bandanna. He likes to see that it is safe—
that is all.

“You do not know how eagerly I am hoping for
the time when I shall be at home with you once more.
I like the city, and feel sure that I am gaining
somewhat here; but it is not, after all, the old
home, with the sunshine, and the flowers, and the
walks, and you, dear Mamma!

“I shall be there when the birds come, and the
garden is made again, and we will be so happy.

“God bless you, Mamma: and do not, and I am
sure you will not, ever forget to love your own
Kitty.”

“Postscript.—Give my love to Uncle Truman,
and ask him if he is not coming to see us soon?”

“Very soon,” thinks Uncle Truman.

“Another Postscript.—Pray what has become of
Harry Flint and all the rest? Do write me. I
love to hear about everybody. Kitty.”

“Umph!” says Mr. Bodgers; “a beautiful letter,
Mrs. Fleming.”

And if Mr. Bodgers were more learned in those
pretty deceptions which a young girl forces upon
her own heart, he would not admire her second
postscript, or stroll in so pleasant humor toward his
lone home.

Not that Mr. Bodgers is in love with Kitty
Fleming. Men of his age, they say, have outlived
such weaknesses. Perhaps so. And yet Mr. Bodgers,

with his forty-odd years upon his head, does
feel from time to time a kind of spasmodic action of
the heart; a sort of restless inquisitive yearning;
an unsatisfied, eager longing, which he cures for
the time being by calling up some such healthful,
blooming, cheerful, earnest girl-face as that of little
Kitty.

“Forty-five,” muses Mr. Bodgers; “it is not so
very old. Many men marry later, and young girls
at that. Thirty-five would be better: and Kitty—
let me see—must be nineteen. Kitty is a sensible
girl, very mature for her years; a sweet girl is
Kitty, very.”

“Fudge! nonsense!” muses Mr. Bodgers; “what
an old fool I am becoming!”

Thereupon Mr. Bodgers takes his will from his
pocket, and reads it over, commending its provisions;
all, is not too much for Kitty. And in this
mood he enters his lonely home. Very silent it is,
with all its comforts. No little canary-singer on
the wall welcomes him; there are no dainty hands
to care for such sweet songsters. The fire is burning
cheerily, but it lightens no pleasant faces. The
afternoon sun comes stealing into the western windows
blithely; as blithely as twenty-odd years gone
by; as blithely as it will do twenty years to come.

Mr. Bodgers sits down under the warm rays, and

tries hard to be cheerful. He runs over the outlines
of his property; he sums up his large estate;
but this gives no special cheer. He indulges in the
recollection of some happy speculation; yet he
grows no gayer. He recalls the fairy movements
of little Kitty as she moved about that very parlor,
in attendance upon his poor, blind mother; but
even this does not make him cheerful.

He throws off his brown surtout, and strides
across the room with a vigorous step; and glances
at the mirror; and gives his hair a twist, and looks
again, and half sighs. He is not growing cheerful,
by any manner of means.

He feels the years creeping on him (as we all
do), with their frailties and feebleness, and halting
pulse, and sinking cheek. And memories brood in
the twilight around the corners of his room, making
him all the lonelier for these spectral visitants of his
brain: harsh memories of losses and of deaths, of
sickness and of sorrow; pleasant memories of smiles,
and laughter, and rejoicings; but all leaving him
only quieter, soberer, lonelier!

What a sunbeam in the old home would not
Kitty make, if her pleasant face was only beaming
there with half the gladness that he has seen upon
it; if her pleasant voice was witching his ear, or
she, leaning quietly upon his shoulder, growing sad

with his sadness; looking as he looks upon the changing
fire-play; imaging unconsciously his brightest
thought in her own sweet, placid face!

Ah, Truman Bodgers, Truman Bodgers! if—