"S-h-h, you mustn't say that naughty word—there now—now," said the cook soothingly, and she and the gardener exchanged a meaning glance.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Judge Lewis, whom I have quoted more than once in this history, had a way of saying with prodigious gravity that the Gwynnes as a family were not without some of the weaknesses of genius; a remark which they innocently liked to repeat until Gwynne Peters, the only one of them all who ever discovered the slightest sense of humour, pointed out its ambiguity.—M. S. W.
[2] Caroline, poor woman, only died the other day, at nearly ninety, I think; she must have outlived the "last of the Gwynnes" upwards of thirty years.—M. S. W.
CHAPTER TWO
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.