"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?"