Mrs. Peters died rather suddenly the spring of the Centennial year.
That, or the fact that hers was the first funeral I ever went to, has
served to fix the date in my memory. Gwynne, who would be seventeen his
next birthday, came home from college; Sam came home too, of course,
but not from college. He never showed much aptitude for learning, nor
stayed longer than six months in any of the numerous schools to which
he was sent one after another. At the time of his mother's death he
was away on a fishing-trip in Canada, they said. The boys came home,
there was a gathering of the Gwynne clan; that sombre south parlour,
dedicated to such ceremonies, was once more opened, the white covers
came off the chairs, revealing them stark and stiff bluish rosewood and
black horsehair. Otherwise the house seemed nowise different; it was
never a cheerful place. We drove out to the funeral with Mrs. Oldham,
who could not afford either to own or hire a carriage herself, and was
always benevolently remembered by her friends on these occasions. In
spite of, or it may be, because of a gift she had of rich and spicy
talk, Mrs. Oldham was one of the people whom no one ever forgets or
overlooks.
"Harriet Peters would be alive this minute," she remarked "if it
hadn't been for Caroline. Taking care of Caroline just about killed
Harriet. Think of having to live with _that_ in the house all the
time! I do think the Gwynnes are too funny; anybody else, any other
set of people under the sun would have sent Caroline to an institution
long ago. All these years they've talked about 'poor Carrie,' and made
believe she was just an ordinary invalid, when everybody _knew_, and
they _knew_ they knew that she's as crazy as a loon." "Oh, no, she
isn't that, you know, Kate," said my grandmother mildly. "She's just
melancholy." "Fiddle-de-dee, what's the difference? She's as crazy as
Arthur; they're all queer, you know it. The Peters boy, Sam, you know,
is queer; Clara Vardaman told me so, she's known those children ever
since they were born. What do you suppose they'll do with Caroline
_now_? There's nobody left, particularly, to look after her; for all
their sniffing around about 'poor Carrie,' they'll none of 'em take
her, you'll see. I suppose Governor Gwynne's will must have made some
provision for her--but then, nobody expected her to outlive all the
others. People like that always live forever somehow." Here, as we
passed another carriage, Mrs. Oldham's face, which had been wearing a
very bright and lively expression, suddenly darkened to one of decent
sadness, touched with satisfaction--that expression sacred to the
sympathetic friends who gather about at funerals. We have all seen
it, and, I dare say, worn it ourselves, more than once. Mrs. Oldham
bowed gravely to the other vehicle, and immediately upon its passage,
turned to my grandmother with a lightning vivacity. "That was Lulu
Gwynne--Lulu Stevens, you know," she said. "How old she's beginning to
look, isn't she?"
I remember listening to Mrs. Oldham with a shocked wonder; she would
not greatly surprise nor offend me nowadays, I am afraid. I have gone
a long way and witnessed funerals a-many since that day, and I have
learned to know that she was no indifferent scoffer, but in her way,
a good-hearted enough woman. She even cried a little at the funeral,
perhaps recalling old times when she and Harriet were girls together;
I thought her, so unsparing is youth, a hideous hypocrite--yet I
cried heartily myself, although I did not care in the least for poor
Mrs. Peters! But who, indeed, young or old, is not somewhat moved by
the brave and sad and beautiful words of the Service? From my place
I could look across at Gwynne sitting quietly with a weeping female
Gwynne on either hand, and marvelled that he shed no tears. He stared
sternly ahead; and I caught myself with shame noting that he seemed
stronger, and was plainly outgrowing his clothes; his wrists stuck out
distressingly, his feet were too large. And Sam--was Sam "queer"? He
did nothing "queer" at the funeral at any rate. Doctor Vardaman was
one of the pall-bearers. We all came away as cheerfully as if it had
been a wedding, it seemed to my severe young mind; I did not know that
everyone is always cheerful coming away from a funeral. The carriages
trot; the hearse-driver pulls up at a wayside watering-trough; he is a
merciful man and merciful to his beasts; by a remarkable coincidence
there is a road-house somewhere in the background, whence he presently
issues, and resumes the reins, wiping his mouth. He hails a friend:
"Hi, Joe, want to ride?" "Don't care if I do." The pall-bearers
exchange cigars and smoke in their carriage. There is a gentle rain
beginning to fall; the shadows lengthen; people comment on the fact
that the cemetery is a long, tiresome ride from town. And as we roll
along, Mrs. Oldham enlivens the journey by sprightly guesses at what on
earth will be done with all the things in the old Gwynne house.
She would probably have keenly appreciated my opportunities; for, being
asked out to stay with Miss Vardaman--who, innocent old schemer that
she was, undoubtedly had certain sentimental ends in view, regarding
Gwynne and me--at about this time, I was a rather shy and reluctant
witness to what Doctor Vardaman grimly denominated the division of
the spoils. There was so much coming and going of Gwynnes visible
from Miss Clara's sitting-room windows that that simple spinster, who
passed her life in a monotony of neat and even pretty little duties,
became feverishly excited. She forgot the canary, neglected the
doctor's socks, let the rubber-plant in the dining-room languish for
want of water while she gazed and speculated. It is true that on one
occasion Miss Clara retreated from her conning-tower with a scared,
serious face, and asked me, fluttering a little, please to lower the
shade. "We oughtn't to seem to be staring, or to notice at all--it's
awful--awful!" she said incoherently, and kept to the other side of
the house the rest of the afternoon. A closed carriage drove into the
park, and after a space, drove out again--that was all. But I knew
they were taking poor Caroline Gwynne to "the place where they put mad
people," that Sam had promised her so long ago. We wondered under our
breaths whether it was Sam who had ordered it; whether the two boys had
agreed or quarrelled; and what the other Gwynnes had said or done. The
unspeakable isolation of insanity that converts a human being into a
kind of dreadful chattel hung about Caroline; we did not dare to ask a
question. Doctor Vardaman knew all about it, but--"I'm afraid to say
anything to John," whispered Miss Clara. "He wouldn't tell anyhow,
you know. Doctors never do. Poor Carrie! I knew her when we were both
young, before--you know. But she never was quite like other girls.
Poor Carrie! It's thirty years----"
By the next day, however, Miss Clara had recovered spirits and
interest; and when a furniture-van slouched up Richmond Avenue, and
turned in between the old brick pillars at the entrance to the park,
she could contain herself no longer. "Mary, come here, do look--you
don't seem to notice anything. That's Zimmermann's wagon, I know it,
and I do believe that's young Charlie Gwynne, Horace's Charlie, you
know, the little one, not Gilbert's Charlie, he's at Harvard, on the
seat telling the driver where to go. Nobody ever knows the way out
here. Now isn't that like Jennie Gwynne? She does just love to boss
and manage everybody. I _knew_ something was up when I saw her coming
out every day--she's not so devoted to the boys as all that, you may
be sure. She just wants to tell 'em what to do and how to do it, and
which, and where, and when, and why--some people beat everything. Not
but what Jennie _is_ a good manager, I'll say that for her. I suppose
they're going to divide the things--well, of course, they've got to be
divided, but I do wonder if poor Gwynne will get anything worth having.
The boy's so gentle and quiet, he won't ever think of speaking up, and
saying, 'I ought to have that, Cousin Jennie.' It would be just like
her to--there goes another wagon. Well, _will you look_? It's one of
those nasty, dirty people, those Bulgarians that keep the second-hand
shops down on Scioto Street--well, if that doesn't pass everything!
The idea of selling anything out of Governor Gwynne's house to those
people--Bulgarians! It's enough to make him turn in his grave."
The doctor, who was a very tall, lean man, laid down his book, arose,
and gravely looked over his sister's head, out of the window at the
procession.
"I don't think that's a Bulgarian, Clara," he observed solemnly.
"What, it isn't? Well, John Vardaman, your eyes are failing,
that's all! There, I can see the name on his ramshackle old cart.
Am--Am--Amirkhanian--there, now, what do you think of _that_?"
"I think he's an Armenian," said the doctor, with no abatement of his
gravity. "I think they're all Armenians--Armenian Jews----"
"Oh, well, tease if you want to! Armenians or Bulgarians it's all one;
those countries where the men wear petticoats, and everybody drinks
sour milk--horrid! The idea of Jennie Gwynne clearing out the house for
_them_! I don't see how the others can let her run things that way; I
don't believe she knows anything about it. Do you suppose she has ever
heard that those blue India-ware plant-tubs, those great big elegant
things were intended to be given to Lucien's wife? Harriet herself told
me she had found a memorandum of it in her father's desk."
"Well, she can't very well sell 'em to the Armenians," said Doctor
Vardaman, with an air of profound consideration. "No Armenian that ever
lived would want to drink his sour milk out of a plant-tub. And besides
they have holes in the bottom, and he couldn't!"
"Oh, you may talk, John, but it's important for somebody to remember
all these things. Jennie Hunter--Jennie Gwynne, I mean, ought to be
told that somebody besides those two forlorn helpless boys knows about
it, and she can't have everything her own way----"
"Better not interfere, Clara," said the doctor, really serious this
time. And Miss Clara who knew very well herself that she ought not
to interfere, was silenced for a while. All the morning she seethed,
watching one van after another trudge away from the house, laden,
apparently, with old mattresses, stove-pipes, and table-legs; for,
such is the irony of circumstance, that, let a house be ever so
richly supplied otherwise, these useful and universal but singularly
uncomely articles always occupy the positions of most prominence on
a furniture-wagon. Their view fed without appeasing the fire of Miss
Clara's curiosity; she exhausted herself in conjecture. And Doctor
Vardaman had not been gone half an hour on his afternoon's round of
visits when she called me excitedly.
"Get your hat and coat; I'm going up there right away. You can't tell
what Jennie Gwynne may be doing. I saw something sticking out of the
back of the last wagon, and I won't be positive, of course, but it
looked _very much_ like the top of one of the mahogany posts to that
big four-post bed in Harriet's room; they are solid mahogany, you know,
Mary, carved all the way up with a kind of pineapple-shaped thing on
the top. If Jennie Gwynne's gone and given away that bed that was poor
Gwynne's own mother's, I just won't stand it, that's all! She won't
stop till she's stripped the boys perfectly bare. What's that? Maybe
it's being sent to storage? Oh, pshaw, she'd never do that, it's too
handsome! For a minute I thought it was the bed in the spare-room,
but I remember now that has helmets carved on top of the posts, not
pineapples. Is my bonnet straight? You know, of course, Mary, I don't
think Jennie would do anything dishonest," she added hastily, her
kind old face suddenly perturbed. "I wouldn't for the world have you
think I meant that. But she's always run everything and everybody. I
don't believe Horace Gwynne dares to say his soul's his own--why, you
_know_ that, you've been there. Jennie just can't help it--she's always
perfectly sure she's right, and she never will listen to anybody, or
consider anybody else's opinion worth anything."
It occurred to me that, in that case, there was not much use
of Miss Clara's rushing in with remonstrances, where much more
angelically-minded persons than she might well have feared to tread;
the Gwynnes were not a family to brook outside interference. But, being
brought up in the seen-and-not-heard tradition, I passively followed
in the old lady's wake. Miss Vardaman's bark was, I knew, a great deal
worse than her bite; and I could hardly fancy her facing down that
ready, cock-sure, and energetic little Mrs. Horace Gwynne. In fact, as
we neared the house, it was obvious that Miss Clara's courage was going
the road of Bob Acres'. She walked slower, commented casually on the
beauty of the spring foliage, and paused in an uneasy hesitation when
we caught sight of another lady--_not_ Mrs. Horace Gwynne--descending
the steps with a bundle in her arms.
"It's Lulu Stevens," she said in an undertone. "I didn't know _she_ was
out here. _Cormorants!_ Harriet couldn't bear her."
"Do you suppose I'll ever get home with this thing?" Mrs. Stevens
greeted us cheerily. The last time I had seen her had been at the
funeral, where she listened as attentively as any of us to the great
and awful words in which we are warned that man walketh in a vain
shadow and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches and cannot
tell who shall gather them. "I came out on the cars--next time I'll
take the carriage. It's the old French china punch-bowl--you know--the
one that used to stand on top of the wine-cabinet in the dining-room.
Cousin Jennie said she thought I might as well take it, she didn't
believe anybody else wanted it. Cousin Jennie's the oldest, you know,
and she has so much _judgment_. Those are those two old cut-glass
decanters I just wrapped up and put inside. Goodness, it's as heavy as
lead! You ought to see the house, Clara, you just ought to _see_ it!
It's cram-full of everything under the sun, I wouldn't have believed
there was all the truck in it."
"It won't be there long, I think," said Miss Vardaman, with unnatural
dryness, glaring at the punch-bowl.
"Well, I don't know," said Mrs. Stevens, quite unconscious of any
sarcasm, which was the last thing in the world one would have looked
for from Miss Clara Vardaman. "It'll take another week to clean it all
out, I believe, though Cousin Jennie is awfully quick and thorough.
The old garret is packed to the eaves, the things there haven't been
touched for twenty-five years. You know poor Harriet never was much
of a housekeeper. Just think, we found eighteen pairs of old shoes
stuck away in a closet--_eighteen_! Some of 'em had rubbers to match.
And there was that pair of crutches one of the boys had when he broke
his leg, and a whole great pile of daguerreotypes taken in the year
One--pretty near everybody in this town--oh, I know it's perfectly
awful to laugh, but you can't help it to save you--old Mrs. Duval, you
know, Clara, in a lace mantle, and corkscrew curls, and a thing like a
tart on a band around her forehead! And some little girl that I think
_must_ be Sallie Gwynne in pantalettes with a poke-bonnet--oh, there're
ever so many we can't place--there's nobody alive now that remembers
'em. There're two or three trunks of old clothes, and Donald Peters'
old uniform and sword, and about a million medicine-bottles, and a set
of false teeth--_false teeth_! Think of it! I'd as soon have expected
to find a coffin-plate."
"What are they going to do with things like that?" asked Miss Clara,
shamefacedly interested.
"Why, Cousin Jennie sent down to some of those second-hand people on
Scioto Street. She says it's a great deal better to sell the things and
get a little money for them that can be divided up among the heirs,
than to try and give them away and have everybody dissatisfied. Cousin
Jennie's so _sensible_."
"It's a shame," Miss Clara commented in a fierce whisper, as the other
went off, radiantly. "That's that beautiful old punch-bowl with the
deep gilt rim and wreath of roses. Daniel Webster's had punch out
of that bowl. And I did so want Gwynne and you to have it in your
house--that is, I--I--I had set my heart on Gwynne's having it, you
know, my dear. Well," she added reflectively, making the best of the
situation, "after all, a good many of the Gwynnes have taken to drink,
so perhaps it's just as well. Only I don't believe Gwynne ever will.
She didn't say a word about the Governor's law-library. Well, now,
Gwynne's going to have that, or I'll know the reason why! I do think it
would be an outrage to give those books to anybody but him--Governor
Gwynne's only grandson--that is, of course, there's Sam. But if Jennie
sets out in that high-handed way to give them to somebody else, I'll
just let her know I'm here, that's all! Mercy, what a noise!"
There was an unusual colour in her cheeks as we climbed the steps;
her lips moved, rehearsing the biting speeches with which she meant
to confound Jennie Gwynne. That lady was upstairs superintending the
removal of one of the enormous carved wardrobes with full-length
mirrors in the doors; we could hear her shrill voice pitched high in
command, and the men grunting and shoving. All the doors and windows
were wide open, the daylight flaunted shamelessly about the grave,
gloomy, reticent old house. A constant bickering of hammers filled
the air; they were taking down and boxing the pictures. Half a dozen
of the huge line-engravings that used to hang in an orderly row about
the walls, "Signing of the Declaration" over one bookcase, "Sistine
Madonna," over another, "Jason and Creusa," "C'est Moi; Scene in the
Prison of the Conciergerie during the Reign of Terror"--all these
artistic treasures, I say, were down and standing about the rooms
awaiting their turn. The Governor's portrait leaned against the white
marble mantel, and you might see the dust-webs festooning the space
where it had hung. "Poor Harriet, she didn't know a thing about keeping
house!" sighed Miss Clara, observing them. In the library all the books
were piled on the floor, and there stood Gwynne, knee-deep amongst
them, in his shirt-sleeves, looking a little helpless and worried.
A youngster whom I recognised for one of the Lawrence children was
playing on the floor in a corner with a quantity of those small square
flat morocco cases decorated with a sort of bas-relief all over the
outside, in which daguerreotypes were once enshrined. Mrs. Lawrence was
haranguing Gwynne excitedly, yet in a subdued voice, with one wary eye
on the stairs.
"Of course, I don't say that Cousin Jennie doesn't _mean_ it all for
the best, Gwynne, but if she would _only_ consider a little! She's
positively _insisted_ on my taking the mahogany hat-rack with the
deer's antlers mounted on it, you know--and even after I _said_ to her,
'Why, Cousin Jennie, I'm sure its awfully nice of you to want me to
have it, but I'd be afraid to put that thing in my house, the hall's so
little, and the stairs come right down by the front door, so there's
hardly any room, and I'd be afraid all the time the children would fall
down the steps and put their eyes out on those prongs--it's a perfect
death-trap!' Now, Gwynne, that's every word I said, and I didn't say it
in a disagreeable way at all, I just said, 'Why, Cousin Jennie, I'd be
afraid to take that thing in my house; and I _told_ her on account of
the children and all, just as nicely as I could, and she got just as
mad as could be, and said she supposed I'd like to have the handsomest
thing in the house, the dining-room set, or something like that, and
you _know_, Gwynne, I never _thought_ of such a thing, and I just wish
you'd speak to her----"
"I'm sorry, Cousin Charlotte," said Gwynne, harassed and weary.
"I--it's really none of my business, you know, the things belong to the
estate, and I suppose Cousin Jennie's the best one to divide them--oh,
Miss Clara!"
He broke off to come and shake hands eagerly; he was glad to see us,
I think. He had grown tall, and older-looking; his voice plunged from
unnatural heights to unexpected depths with a startling and, I dare
say, rather ludicrous effect. Wouldn't we sit down? "It's--it's all
mussed up," he said, casting an anxious glace around. He called to
the carpenters to stop their racket; it was warm, wasn't it? He'd
have Hannah get us something, some lemonade, wouldn't we like it?
No, he wasn't busy, just packing books, he'd be glad to rest. Sam?
Why--why--Sam had gone--had gone back to Canada, didn't we know it?
There wasn't really anything for Sam to do, you know. Cousin Jennie was
seeing to everything.
"Jennie has so much _judgment_, you know," Mrs. Lawrence put in. "We
couldn't have anybody, any legal person coming in here to appraise and
divide, that would be simply _horrid_--dear old Uncle Samuel's things.
And Jennie is a perfectly ideal person--so sensible and just. But then
we aren't the kind of family to have any fussing anyhow."
("Now wasn't that _Gwynne_ all over?" said Miss Clara afterwards.
"She'd just been giving Jennie _Hail Columbia!_ But they might fight
like cats and dogs among themselves, they'd never let an outsider know
it. There's Gwynne Peters, the best boy that ever lived. He'd die
rather than tell a lie, or take what didn't belong to him--and there
he sat, just pleasantly smiling and pretending that everything was all
right, when he was nearly worn out with the fuss and worry!")
Mrs. Horace Gwynne came downstairs in the rear of the leviathan
wardrobe, ordering and exhorting. As the men staggered down the front
steps with it, she turned into the library. "I suppose your Cousin
Charlotte has been telling you about the hat-rack, Gwynne," she began
in an acid voice. "All I have to say is--oh, how do you do, Miss Clara.
Mercy, Charlotte, tell Marian to come away from those books! Come here
to Cousin Jennie, dearie; what have you got there? Don't hurt that nice
book."
"It ain't a nice book," said the child resentfully. "It's Revised
Statutes of the State of Ohio--it says: 'Forcible entry does not
c-o-n-con-s-t-i-constitute trespass.' What's 'forcible entry,' Cousin
Gwynne?"
"Put it down, dear, never mind," said Mrs. Horace kindly. "I want
Gwynne to have all his grandfather's library," she explained, turning
to Miss Vardaman. "It's only right, you know. He's Governor Gwynne's
only grandson--except Sam, of course. But I said to all the family in
the beginning that Gwynne Peters should have those books, it would be
outrageous to give them to anyone else."
Poor Miss Clara! I could have laughed at the blank expression with
which she beheld this stealing of her thunder.
"I'm sure you're quite right, Jennie," she said tamely. "You've always
had a great deal of _judgment_. Gwynne, dear, how did you get that
great black bruise on your forehead?"
"I ran into something," Gwynne said, flushing.
"Oh, Cousin Gwynne, oh, what an awful story!" Marian piped in her sharp
treble. "It's where Cousin Sam threw the boot at you when he got mad at
you the other day. Cousin Sam had a queer spell, I heard Hannah say so."
"Marian!" cried her mother savagely.
"Hannah's getting into her dotage, and imagines things," said
Mrs. Horace Gwynne, reddening to her forehead. "I don't know what
we're going to do with the poor old thing----" They all talked on
desperately. It was a ghastly moment for everybody. The skeleton
rattled its grisly bones in the Gwynne family closet, and there was
something foolishly and pitiably heroic in the gallant effort they made
to silence that hideous activity. Mrs. Lawrence and Mrs. Horace, the
one Gwynne by blood, the other by adoption, forgot their private feud
in the common defence. To your tents, O Israel!
"You might look over those old daguerreotypes, Miss Clara," Mrs.
Gwynne said. "Marian, run and get them for Miss Vardaman. I don't know
who some of the people are, maybe you'll recognise them."
Gwynne opened a case. "This one is all going to pieces," he said, as
the little pad of faded green brocade in the lid fell out; behind it
was a slip of yellowed paper. "Oh, look here, it has 'John to Louise,
June, 1839,' on it, 'John to Louise'--who was that, do you suppose?"
"Let me see it," said Miss Clara.
"Louise? Maybe that's Louise Andrews--she was a Gwynne, you know," said
Mrs. Lawrence frowning in an effort of recollection. "I can't think of
any other Louise. Is there a picture of her? She was a great beauty."
"Did you ever see her, Cousin Charlotte?"
"Goodness, no, she's been dead I don't know how long."
"I remember her," said Miss Vardaman. "I'm so much older than any of
you. She married Leonard Andrews, she didn't live very long. Yes, she
was very pretty. That's John's picture. Yes, I suppose it _does_ look
funny, but that's the way they all dressed, you know, in those days.
They were engaged and then they quarrelled about something--oh, dear
me, it's years and years ago."
"You'd better take that picture, Miss Clara," said Mrs. Horace Gwynne
briskly. "Maybe Doctor Vardaman would like to have it, and--oh, I was
going to speak to you about something. You know I'm managing everything
and it's an awful responsibility; I've counted all the towels and
sheets and measured all the pieces of goods I've found--nothing
ought to be wasted or thrown away, you know. There're a whole lot of
medicine-bottles upstairs, over three hundred--do you think the doctor
could use them? They're very good bottles, you know, no corks of
course--I thought maybe the doctor----"
"John wouldn't have any use for them, I thank you, Jennie," said Miss
Clara, stiffening.
Gwynne's eyes met mine. "The wistaria on the dining-room porch is going
to bloom, don't you want to see it?" said he, biting his lips.
We retreated to the wistaria, and both of us, propped against the
dining-room wall, gave away to hysterical laughter, all the more
violent because we must smother it. Gwynne's nerves, I think, were a
little unstrung by all he had been through the last melancholy week.
"I--I can't help it----" he gasped. "I know it's all wrong, but I can't
help it. They're so funny!"
We were presently visited with retribution for our ungodly merriment;
for, as we stood there, an Armenian--or Bulgarian--gentleman came
around the corner of the house with a wheelbarrow heaped with the spoil
of the garret, and after him another bearing on his shoulders our old
hair-trunk. Hardly any hair was left upon it, now; but there it was
long and low and round-topped with rows of brass nails black with
verdigris. It was going away on the Armenian shoulders--going out of
our lives forever like those childish days. Gwynne looked at me with a
rather tremulous smile.
"'Ha, Saint Edward! Ha, Saint George!' exclaimed the Black Knight,
cutting down a man at each invocation," he quoted. "Don't, Mary!" For
I am ashamed to say that I sat down on the top step and cried openly,
while the boy tried to comfort me.