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——"