“WELL, YOU LOOK rather under the weight of things,” said Anna, encountering Terence in his hall, on her way to her aunt. “Has anything come upon you?”
“Only the displeasure of Aunt Sukey.”
“And is not that enough?”
“Well, it does not seem to count much any longer.”
“What is the reason of it?”
“We do not sufficiently attend upon her, or expend enough feeling upon her approaching end.”
“Well, I must say I don’t think she does get much sympathy on that score. And it does constitute a real claim. It is a lonely business, waiting to be translated to another sphere.”
“It is a very long one,” said Terence.
“And does that make it better for her?”
“Well, she seems to like her life to be prolonged.”
“I don’t think I should in her place.”
“It shows how much more grasp I have of her mind. Experience has done something for us. But it has destroyed our natural feeling, and now we have to fabricate it, and she is a judge of the real thing.”
“Yes, I should say her tastes are for the genuine. And I think she must often wish the end would come. This waiting on the brink of the abyss can’t have much to recommend it.”
“Well, it is so very like ordinary life,” said Terence.
“Oh, make no mistake, it bears very little resemblance to it. How would you like to get up in the morning, without knowing whether you were to go to bed at night? It is a situation that must soon pall.”
“It seems to keep its vitality.”
“It may be a joke to you. It is not to her.”
“It was so little of one to me, that it deadened my sensibilities. I have become a different man.”
“It can hardly work in that way with her. She must remain alive to the dangers of her place.”
“It is no good to try to work on my feelings. I told you they were dead.”
“I am glad I have not become entirely insensitive.”
“You have not had time. There would be no excuse for it. I should be very much shocked if it happened so soon.”
“Well, you shock me a thought on your own account now and again.”
Anna knew no other method of approach, and gave her cousin no idea that she was putting forth her appeal. She thought that holding her own exalted her, and had no suspicion that people might tire of disagreement.
“It is not kind to say such things, when I live in a shadowed home,” said Terence.
“That hardly matters, if the shadow has ceased to make an impression.”
“But that is a sad thing to happen to a highly evolved creature.”
“I am content with my lower state, if it allows of my being of some use to someone in need.”
“I should not have thought you were a noble character,” said Terence, looking into Anna’s face.
“Neither should I; I mean, I do think that being with Aunt Sukey has brought out something in me that I did not know was there. Brought it to the surface, I suppose. Not that you need to be so exalted, to have a little ordinary compassion.”
“Mine was not ordinary when I was able to give it.”
“And I daresay mine is,” said Anna, in resigned acceptance. “But that will not matter, if it can hold to life. Workaday qualities may be the best in the end. Things can be too ethereal to last.”
“But it is nice to think that my qualities were of that kind. I should dislike to be a person who would wear well.”
“That happens to be my precise ambition,” said Anna.
Sukey came slowly across the hall, stooping more than usual over her stick, her face at once flushed and drawn, and her eyes, bent on the floor, very bright.
“Anna, my dear, have you come to be with your cousins, or to spend an hour with me? I don’t know which was in your mind, but if it was the latter, you must come to me at once, or my need of you will be past. I have had some work to do this morning; and that is no longer the right thing for me, and my energy is nearly spent.”
“I have come to be with you,” said Anna, turning and making a scrambling way through the hall. “I was detained by a young man who seems to lie in wait for the unwary, and was involved in an argument before I knew where I was.”
“I have never known a boy with so much spare time,” said Sukey, as they went upstairs.
“His mornings are supposed to be bestowed on Reuben. I don’t pretend to know what his method is. Reuben has lost his heart to him; that is clear, though of course he thinks it is not.”
Anna was more fortunate than her brother in that no one suspected her similar case. She had less difficulty in disguising her feelings than revealing them, and her secrets were her own.
“Well, I have had a duty to do to-day,” said Sukey, as she came to her chair. “It seems strange that I should be giving my mind to this world’s goods, when I shall so soon be unconscious of them. But it seems they are still mine, for me to say how they are to go when I am gone. I still have that little power, and have no choice but to use it. So every stage of life brings its own duties, even the last.”
“I don’t know why you are always so sure that you are at the end of things,” said Anna.
“Something tells me that I am, something that has spoken to me very plainly in the last days. So I must turn my attention to making things better for others, when I have left them. It sounds a wholesome duty, but it is late for me to discipline myself.”
“I should not think it is very good for you either.”
“Well, that hardly matters at this stage. Nothing can be good for me in that sense any more. But I have a confession to make, that may strike you as a strange one. You must make it easy for me, as I am not used to playing such a part. It is no such dark and dreadful thing; you need not look frightened, my dear; it is only that I was led by weariness and weakness to make a pretence of doing what it is not in me to do. Many people have done it, in the last days of suffering and sorrow, yes, and disappointment in the poor human nature that they share.”
“Is it necessary for you to trouble about it?” said Anna.
“Yes, I owe it to my sister, the last debt of all others to leave unpaid. I had left what I had, to her for her life, and at her death to her children. Your father has more in proportion to his needs, and I have made demands on her family; and those did not count the less, that they had been found too much.”
“I suppose they count at once less and more,” said her niece.
“That may be so, but they must count to the full. And I could not bring myself to let them. My feet faltered even on that open path. I pretended that I was going to destroy my will, and make one in favour of you. It was a poor reward for your kindness to me, to involve your name in such sorriness. But you see your very kindness gave colour to the scheme. I wanted my revenge for the little neglects, that loom so large to a sick mind. I copied the will and altered the names, and went through the form of signing it and having it witnessed. My sister helped me; she could not think of herself; we neither of us thought of it as possible. And I was to destroy the first will, and leave this one to take effect. But the old one is in the desk, where it has always been. The key of the drawer is here. And I want you to remember it is there, and that the second is destroyed, if any question should arise, as my sister will only want to follow the truth. You might take this new one and burn it for me; this fire is getting low, and I am tired of my sorry part. I get more tired by my own weakness and littleness than by anything else. You will read me to sleep, and when I wake, we will not talk of it. And some time I will tell my sister the truth.”
Anna read aloud, in the voice that had more of the family tones, when she read than when she spoke. The succession of sentences seemed to control it and hold its harshness down. Sukey listened with her eyes closed, and gave no sign of the moment when she slept. Anna read until the sleep was sound, and then closed the book and rose to go, taking the scroll from the table. It seemed as if Sukey knew what she did, for her face settled into youth and calm. Anna looked at her and looked again; stood as if she hardly knew where she was; approached her and touched her hand and her face; made a movement to the desk, and drew back and glanced round the room, as if to make sure she was alone. Then she went to the desk and sat down, with her hands lightly playing on its board; and without breaking the movement, unlocked the drawer and exchanged the scrolls and closed it; and sat with the older scroll in her hands and her eyes gazing before her, as it might be in the vacancy of shock. Then she locked the drawer and left the room, carrying the scroll openly in her hand, and with her rapid, hurrying step sounding as usual. She seemed prepared to encounter anyone and give an account of what she did. She walked to the gate in the same manner, glancing about in readiness to exchange a greeting, but when she was out of sight, quickened her pace and walked swiftly to her home.
The drawing-room at that hour was deserted, and she took the will to the fire and burned it, showing neither furtiveness nor haste. Her aunt had given her directions, and she was fulfilling them. Her word was ready for anyone who asked for it. When it was done, and she found herself still alone, she disposed of the ashes and sat down with a book. She still maintained her natural air; she might have been acting to herself; Anna remembered that walls have ears and eyes.
When her father entered, she looked up in her usual manner.
“So you are at home, my daughter. Did you see your aunt?”
“Yes, she was in a rather disturbed mood. Something had happened to upset her, and I had to read her to sleep. I did not find it a compliment to be used as a soporific; but I was efficacious, and then I could only come away. I don’t know what the trouble was.”
“Had I better go to her, as usual?”
“It can do no harm, and it might do good. If she is still asleep, you can leave her. We might go together, and go for a walk, if you can do nothing. I should like to know how she is, myself. I confess she is a person who has laid her hold upon me. I should be most uplifted, if we could set her on her feet again. I wish I had known the woman she was, when there was no cloud hanging over her.”
“The way she lives under it, shows the woman she is. It is a great thing to show the supreme courage through every hour of each day. We cannot measure it.”
“It is certainly not estimated in the household where she lives. Making every allowance for the effect of time, we can only say that.”
“It must be easy to forget that time does not blunt it for her,” said Benjamin.
“Well, it is certainly forgotten.”
“You have risen to this demand, my daughter. She has found you of help in her time of need. I would have asked nothing better than to have a child of mine do that for her.”
“You speak as if I were not always equal to the claims of life,” said Anna, with a little laugh. “Oh, my life has had its problems. And Aunt Sukey’s are not the only ones that people get used to, though mine do not compare with hers. People can see things so often, that they see them no longer.”
“The house has rather a strange look,” said Benjamin, as they approached it.
“It does look as if it had forgotten the world,” said Anna, proceeding at her usual pace. “And it usually looks as if it remembered it in its own way. That is what it does, I think.”
“Are not the blinds down?” said her father.
“Some of them are; yes. All of them, I believe. It gives almost a sinister impression. I hope Aunt Sukey has not insisted on a rehearsal of her coming end. She was rather in a mood to give an object lesson to the household. And I don’t know that one would come amiss.”
Benjamin walked on, as if he had not heard, indeed had hardly done so. Jessica came into the hall to meet him, and took his hands in hers.
“Benjamin, she has left us. It has come at last. It has been coming for so long, that we forgot that each day was bringing it. Our beautiful sister! It is hard to understand why her life should have gone as it did.”
“Good heavens! And I was joking about it a moment ago,” said Anna, in a smothered tone. “Well, it is true that in the midst of life we are in death. And with Aunt Sukey it seemed to be the other way round. In the face of death she was so full of life. Well, my first real, personal interest is soon over.”
“Was it sudden at the end?” said Benjamin.
“As far as we can see, it happened while she slept. We found her lying in her chair, as if she were asleep. They thought that the end might come in a moment, and I often prayed that it would. She has had that piece of good fortune.”
“And does not know that she had it,” muttered Anna. “That would happen to Aunt Sukey.”
“What would she have done without you, Jessica?” said Benjamin.
“Better if she had not had so much of me. It is true that we get used to anything, and it was a sad truth for Sukey. I am thankful that she had you and Anna in her last days, those last days that were with us so long, and were with her always. Anna, how did she seem, when you were with her? You were the last person who saw her alive. Was she as well as usual? Did she seem herself?”
“In the sense that she was in a way especially herself, when she had been disturbed. Something had happened to upset her. And that seemed to bring out the essence of her, if that is clear. In a way I think she throve on it, if you know what I mean, and if it is not callous to speak the truth. I never know how to wrap things up in words. I had never seen her more the especial person that she was.” Anna’s voice shook and came with a sound of tears. “She seemed to be especially strong and independent, when things had gone against her, or she thought they had. It was hard to distinguish between the truth and her impression of it. It was real to her, and I could only see it through her eyes. If I was ever disloyal to anyone else, I don’t think I can be blamed for it. I did not always know what line to take.”
“I am thankful that you did just that. I am thankful for any help that you gave her. We shall always be grateful to you,” said Jessica. “But what of her bodily state? Did she seem well or ill?”
“Well at first, and almost energetic, as if she were wrought up by something. But that mood passed and she settled down. She had been burning some papers, and that seemed to be a weight off her mind. She asked me to read her to sleep, and I did as she asked, though I never find that a flattering request, and I had come, wanting to talk to her. I read as smoothly as I could, and when she fell asleep, I crept away. I had done it before, though I never thought I should do it in our last hour together. I had no idea that I should never see her again.”
“Of course you had not,” said Thomas, coming to their side. “It is one of our few protections in life, that we cannot foretell the future.”
“From life, I should say,” said Anna, seeming to try to speak like herself.
“Anna had no thought that Sukey was more ill than usual,” said Benjamin. “She said that something had been amiss, and that her aunt was unsettled by it. But we thought she would wake and welcome my visit, and so came back to the house.”
“And had the shock of a lifetime when we saw the blinds drawn,” said Anna. “At least Father had. I did not realise what they meant, and even made some jest about them, which was a breach of convention even for me. I find myself going hot and cold when I think of it.”
“We could not spare you there,” said Thomas. “We did not expect you so soon. A message would soon have gone to you.”
“Who had the real shock?” said Benjamin.
“My Tullia,” said Thomas. “She took some message to her aunt, and found her, as she thought, asleep; and did not escape without seeing the truth. She will take some time to recover. Her brother is with her.”
“Poor children!” said Jessica. “A dark thread has been woven into the pattern of their youth.”
“It was right to leave her to sleep, wasn’t it?” said Anna, in an almost wistful tone. “Waking a person is never a good thing. I did not think of telling anyone that she was there alone.”
“You were right in all that you did,” said Thomas. “And you were able to do something. We could find it in our heart to envy you.”
“Yes, I am fortunate there,” said his niece. “It was a piece of good luck that will last me for my life. And it will have to, as I don’t see that I shall ever have any other. I see I have reason to be grateful.”
Tullia came into the hall with Terence, walking with her head high and her expression tense, and taking her stand by a pillar, leaned against it.
“Poor Tullia! Things fell hard on you,” said Anna. “And without anything to balance the scale. You did not strike an easy corner.”
“I suppose she should not have been left alone,” said Jessica. “I mean my Sukey.”
“That was accepted at one time,” said Thomas. “But the months went by and deadened the sense of risk. An end to daily precautions must always come.”
“So I am a sort of culprit after all,” said his niece. “I did not think of watching over her sleep. I knew she was left alone at night.”
“Her maid slept next door,” said Jessica. “She would not have anyone sleeping in the room. If you followed the custom of the house, it was all you could do. It is indeed not for us to ask any more. And perhaps the watching was done for us. She went without pain, and she will never know it again. We cannot say it of ourselves.”
“She steered a hard course, and she steered it alone,” said Thomas. “We may all come to doing that. But there is no greater good fortune than sudden death.”
“Father refuses to feel remorse,” said Terence. “And he does not see any direct way of avoiding it. I wonder if a decent family ever had more ground for it.”
“Why should Father feel it more than anyone else?” said Tullia, in a faint tone.
“I could not say a harsh thing on this occasion. And I am engaged with my own share of it. I cannot bear not having been a better nephew. Now I have that burden to carry for the rest of my days.”
Tullia gave a fleeting smile and moved her hand towards her heart.
“You have not inherited Aunt Sukey’s weakness, have you? If you have, I shall fail as a brother. You have an example in my failure of Aunt Sukey. I have not the manliness in me, that is tender to feeble things. I should have been born in a changeling world.”
“Well, you were not,” said Anna, looking about her, as if surveying a different one. “And this one has very little place for changelings, as far as I can see.”
“I don’t think you would see any further,” said Terence.
“Now what does that mean? Something that I cannot take as a compliment, I make no doubt.”
“It is hard on you to be involved in this turmoil of feeling,” said Tullia, “when you had only known Aunt Sukey for a few months.”
“I had come to appreciate her,” said Anna, brusquely. “It was long enough for that, or I found it so.”
“Perhaps it was not too long for it.”
“Well, have it like that, if you will. Let us say that it was just the right time.”
“Anna did well for her,” said Thomas. “There is often a place for a stranger in a familiar world. She gave what she had to give, without weariness or strain, and that was what was needed.”
“I had got a little beyond the stage of feeling a stranger,” said his niece.
“We had ceased to be able to do it,” went on Thomas. “We are not blind to the truth.”
“It is unusual to face a thing like that,” said Terence. “There is something strange about us as a family.”
“Anna would have come to feel as we did,” said Tullia.
“Well, I had not reached that stage,” said her cousin. “And I can’t imagine either myself or my father coming near to it. You can’t assume that people would always react as you do.”
“I have found it a safe assumption,” said Tullia, in a languid tone. “Making the necessary allowances, of course.”
“Then you must lack perception or comprehension or experience or something.”
Tullia laughed, as if she found it odd that Anna should respond in this equal manner.
“What is the joke?” said her cousin.
Tullia gave another little laugh.
“I am glad it is an occasion for amusement,” said Anna. “I should not have thought it was, myself.”
“My Tullia cannot be herself to-day,” said Thomas.
“No, poor thing, she had rough luck,” said Anna. “But we have not any of us done too well.”
“Her indifference to her aunt did not stand her in much stead,” said Thomas, stroking his daughter’s hair.
“Well, I am prepared to believe it is assumed,” said Anna. “And I shall feel a good deal better towards her, if it is. I know people are supposed to disguise their feelings, but I never know why it is a natural ambition to be without them.”
“One is not without them, because they are one’s own affair,” said Tullia.
“We should not think of them as different from other people’s,” said Jessica. “They may be our own, but they are not peculiar to ourselves.”
“I hope that is true,” said Terence. “It seems to give us less reason to be ashamed.”
“Well, one life is over,” said Thomas. “Our own will come to the same pass. Things go from one generation to another. We cannot expect to check their course.”
“We are learning to leave Aunt Sukey’s death behind,” said Terence. “Or anyhow Father is teaching us.”
“The children are coming downstairs,” said Anna. “Are they to know or not to know? Is it to be talked about before them, or not? I can hear that Reuben is with them. I will accept any decision.”
“Eventually it must strike them that Aunt Sukey is no longer amongst us,” said Terence.
Miss Lacy came forward in front of the children, her eyes fixed on Jessica’s face in mute question.
“Yes, the simple truth, Miss Lacy,” said the latter, in a quiet tone.
Miss Lacy drew back to allow the mother the initiative, and Jessica was not at a loss.
“My little ones,” she said, stooping towards the children, “I must tell you something that is both sad and happy. Aunt Sukey has gone away from us, but she is near to us all the while. We grieve for ourselves, but we do not grieve for her.”
“Is she dead?” said Dora, at once.
“She is what we call dead, but we know it is not true, while we say it. She is more alive than she has ever been.”
“She hasn’t been quite as much alive as other people for a long time, has she?” said Julius, speaking to cover a smile that he could not explain or control.
“No, she has been ill and weak. But now she has a fuller life to make up for it.”
“Won’t she ever be in her room any more?” said Dora, in a slightly unsteady tone.
“Not so that we can see her. But we shall feel that she is there.”
“Then will you keep the room for her?”
“She would like us to use it for ourselves, but we shall always think of it as hers.”
“Why tell them that anything has happened at all?” said Tullia to her brother.
“I suppose for fear they should notice her absence, and make erroneous deductions.”
“Is she buried already?” said Julius.
“No, not yet,” said his mother. “But we need not think about that. We must just feel that her spirit is free.”
“She was tired of this house, wasn’t she?” said Julius. “She said she was tired of everything.”
“It is really a merciful release,” said Dora.
“Well, we can feel it is best for her,” said Jessica, in a slightly different manner.
“Shall we know when she is buried?” said Julius.
“Well, there will be a funeral, of course. You are too young to go to it. But you will be able to put some flowers on her grave. Perhaps you would like to keep some always there.”
Dora and Julius looked at each other, foreseeing a tax on their supplies for sacrifice.
“It would be better to grow some roots,” said Dora.
“Yes, that would be nicer still,” said her mother. “The gardener will give you some, and you can plant them yourselves.”
“I daresay we can pick them sometimes,” said Julius, in a low tone.
“It would be better to leave them for Aunt Sukey,” said Jessica. “You mean them for her, don’t you?”
“He meant the dead ones,” said Dora, raising her eyes. “Flowers don’t grow so well, if those are left. He didn’t know if you might pick anything from graves.”
“I think you may take care of the plants. Aunt Sukey would like you to do that. That is not the same as picking flowers for yourselves.”
“It would be all right to use them for a sacred purpose,” said Julius, in a rapid undertone.
“And now you will not go for a walk to-day,” said Jessica, speaking as if this daily exercise maintained life on a festive level. “You will just have a quiet hour in the garden. Here is Reuben to go with you. It will be nice for you to be together.”
“And now what messages have to be taken?” said Miss Lacy.
“None that we may give to you, Miss Lacy,” said Thomas. “We must not burden you with them.”
“What messages have to be taken?” said Miss Lacy, in the same manner.
“Miss Lacy can help us, if she will,” said Jessica. “There are messages, as she knows. She can be of great use, if she will be so kind.”
“And she will be,” said Miss Lacy. “Or rather she will be not kind at all, but an ordinary family friend.”
Some messages were written and given to Miss Lacy, and others put aside for Terence; and Miss Lacy quietly gathered them all into her hands and went.
“Why is it nice for us to be together?” said Julius, as they reached the garden. “For some religious reason?”
“So that we can share our feelings,” said Dora, in an absent tone. “Why do we nearly laugh, when people tell us that someone has died?”
Her companions could not tell her, though they had found themselves under the same compulsion.
“It is not as if we were amused.”
“And that is where it is not fair on us,” said Julius. “Our innocent action would be misinterpreted.”
“We were not seen so it does not matter,” said his sister.
“Do you really mind that Aunt Sukey is dead?” said Julius.
“Not so that it makes any real difference. Of course I should choose for her to be alive. No one would condemn another person to death.”
“Terence doesn’t believe that people live after they are dead,” said Reuben. “I know it from something he said.”
“You should not repeat things, that are just let fall by accident,” said Dora. “And we never talk about Terence’s opinions about those things. We know he is under a sad error, and will one day know it. And it is not fair to tell people the one thing that is sad about him.”
“Will it be better or worse for us, now that Aunt Sukey is dead?” said Julius.
“You mean that Mother will have more time for us,” said Dora. “But I hardly think she will, because she hasn’t had enough for Father, and will have to give it all to him. And I don’t think she would ever supervise us much. She would always think of other things.”
“I think I would as soon have Jenney as a mother,” said Reuben.
“I daresay it would be as good,” said Dora. “And there would be less painfulness over things. I should not think that Jenney ever makes that. But there is nothing to complain of about our mother, and it would not do to have no one.”
“Perhaps Father and Miss Lacy would be enough,” said Julius.
“I am not sure that they would,” said his sister. “It wouldn’t do for things to be too much without seriousness. We might be ill or in trouble or get imprisoned; and Father and Miss Lacy and even Terence might not even come to see us. It would not do only to be thought about light-heartedly.”
“Do you suppose we are more likely to die, because of Aunt Sukey?” said Julius. “Those things do run in families.”
“Aunt Sukey died of her illness.”
“That is what I meant. We might inherit it.”
“I don’t think children ever have illnesses like that. I think their hearts are always sound. But we will cast our burden on Chung, and go our way.”
Dora sank on her knees before the rock, and Julius knelt by her. Reuben stood aside, waiting for the word to join them.
“O great and good and powerful god, Chung, deliver us from any danger that besets us from the illness of our late kinswoman. For we would walk long upon the paths of this earth. Therefore save us from the threat of the valley of the shadow. For Sung Li’s sake, amen.”
“A word for Aunt Sukey’s soul, so as not to intercede only for ourselves,” said Julius.
“And have a care, O god, for the soul of thine erring handmaid. Bear in mind that the trials were great, that beset her, and that though her spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. For Sung Li’s sake, amen.”
As they rose from their knees, Reuben disappeared into the bushes, feeling he could bear no part in this fellowship. He looked back to see if he was missed, but his cousins were too little concerned with him, to observe his going.
“I don’t suppose the cloud will lift until after the funeral,” said Julius. “But we need not take much notice of it. We can keep out of doors, and a little preaching and weeping in the house won’t make much difference.”
Julius was wrong in his forecast, as his mother was even now approaching.
“Where is Reuben?” she said.
Her children could not tell her.
“You have not been unkind to him, have you?”
“No,” said the pair, looking surprised.
“We hardly spoke to him,” said Julius.
“We did not even see when he went,” said Dora, in support of her brother.
“Well, would you like to come and have a little talk about Aunt Sukey? It will be nice to do that, while we still almost feel that she is with us. She has been so much of our life, hasn’t she?”
“And after she is buried, we shan’t ever be able to speak of her again,” said Dora.
“Oh, I always think that is such a sad way of doing things. I shall like to talk about her, just as if she were still one of us. And of course we shall feel that she is.”
“But will you be able to do that?” said Julius. “You talk about her now in a different way.”
“And people often don’t speak of people after they are dead,” said Dora. “Miss Lacy had a brother who died, and his name was never mentioned in the house.”
“Well, I think that was a great pity,” said Jessica. “It would have been better to speak of him whenever he came into their minds. Because they must often have been thinking of him.”
“If it is possible to do it,” said Julius. “But I don’t think it often is. You are not really doing it now. I mean, not like you did, when Aunt Sukey was alive.”
Something in his voice recalled that his mother’s words had not always been in praise of her sister.
“It might be suitable to make a difference,” said Dora, in a mature tone.
“Well, let us just say what we cannot help thinking,” said Jessica. “That she was a beautiful and unusual person for us to have in our home, and that we can never replace her.”
“People can’t ever do that, whatever the dead person is like,” said Julius.
“Was she as beautiful as Tullia?” said Dora. “I don’t think Father thought she was.”
“Well, her face was not young when you knew it. But in a way its experience made it better. We can often read a story in people’s faces.”
“Was there one in Aunt Sukey’s face?”
“Yes, a sad one, I am afraid, the story of wasted gifts and beauty spoiled by suffering,” said Jessica, not feeling she was in danger of making too deep an impression. “I don’t think anyone could have had a harder thing to bear.”
“Did you know about it, when she was alive?” said Dora.
“Yes, but I did not always remember it. But I think she felt that I knew it in my heart.”
“If you had said it, other people would have known. It might have been better for her, if they had.”
“Well, let that teach you that we should do what we can for each other, while we have the opportunity. When that once goes, we can never recall it.”
“But didn’t you know that?” said Dora.
“Yes, but I am afraid I was inclined to forget it. You must try to do better than I did.”
“Could children do that?” said Julius.
“I hope you will. You have a weak and stumbling person for a mother. You must never think her example is one to follow.”
“You are better than anyone else in the house, aren’t you?” said Dora.
Jessica was silent, finding that the family standard hardly struck her as a high one.
“I think Uncle Benjamin knew about Aunt Sukey,” said Dora. “He didn’t mind about her illness making her different. I think he was the only person who didn’t. Of course the other people mightn’t have known.”
“Did Father know?” said Julius.
“Yes, he knew,” said Jessica. “He felt it more than he showed.”
“It seems really to be better to show things,” said Dora. “Even though deep things are supposed to be hidden. They don’t seem to be much good, if they are not even seen.”
“No real feeling is ever wasted,” said her mother.
“But it is wasted for the person it is about,” said Julius. “And that is a kind of waste.”
“Why isn’t it wasted?” said Dora. “It isn’t any good to other people.”
“Well, I hope you will act on all this wisdom,” said Jessica. “I could have left Aunt Sukey to you sometimes, if I had known how much you understood.”
“We didn’t understand anything until you told us,” said Dora.
“I feel I should blame myself for telling you too late.”
“Things do seem to be too late, don’t they? I think everything does. A person is dead before any of it is any use to her. And it might be a good deal of use in making people different.”
“Do you think we were not kind to Aunt Sukey?” said Jessica, unable to repress the question.
“We don’t think you weren’t,” said Julius, “and we know that Anna was kind.”
“And Uncle Benjamin seemed to know about her,” said Dora; “and the other people couldn’t help not knowing. I don’t think even Father knew, because he once said it would be a solution, if Aunt Sukey were to go. He said it to Tullia.”
“He meant go away on her own life, strong and well again,” said Jessica, not feeling it a case for observing the letter of the truth.
“No, he meant if she were to die. You would have known he meant that, if you had been there.”
“Well, he said it to Tullia, and not to you or me.”
“He did not say it in at all a private way,” said Julius. “Not like he sometimes does to Tullia. He knew people would know what he meant.”
“That is another thing that shows he didn’t know about Aunt Sukey,” said Dora. “He would have told Tullia, because he always tells her everything. And I am sure Tullia cjidn’t know.”
“No, poor Tullia, I don’t think she did,” said Jessica. “But it is a good rule never to quote anyone, unless you are sure he would wish it. You may have said things about Aunt Sukey yourselves, that you would not like to hear repeated.”
“I think she was a person who did make people do that,” said Dora. “But we didn’t often talk about her. There wasn’t much to say.”
“Well, I think you will talk of her now, and think of her, and try to keep your memory of her green.”
“Do people like a memory better than a real person?” said Dora.
“I am sure I do not,” said her mother. “But when a memory is all we have, we must make the most of it.”
“Did Aunt Sukey spend all her money?” said Julius. “Or did she leave any behind?”
“Some of it she spent, of course. And some she gave to me, to help me with the house. I don’t know what she has done with the rest.”
“I didn’t know she was so kind,” said Dora.
“So it wasn’t really good of you and Father to let her be here,” said Julius. “I think he sometimes thought it was. Perhaps he didn’t know about that either.”
“It certainly was not good of me,” said Jessica. “I could not have borne for her to live anywhere else. And I think we see from this talk that it was Aunt Sukey who was good. And that is what I wanted to show you. So you will talk and think of her as the person she really was. And you need not think about other people’s ways with her. Just see that your own are the right ones; that will be enough.”
“It is not our fault that Aunt Sukey is dead, and that people failed in their duty to her,” said Julius, gloomily, as they left their mother. “Children should not be used for the outlet of grown-up people’s guilty feelings. What have we to do with their remorse? It is the due reward of their deeds.”
Jessica heard the sound of Dora’s laugh, and assumed that a childish mood had supervened. She hardly looked as if she had met the relief that her son suggested. Her face was harassed and confused, as if something had complicated her burdens. When Thomas and his elder children approached, she seemed hardly to see them.
“Well, we have a healthy piece of bad news to destroy the sanctity of Aunt Sukey’s memory,” said Terence. “She will not rule us after death, as she did in life. We shall have our freedom, but we shall pay the price.”
“What has happened?” said his mother.
“I feel I cannot tell you.”
“Need we talk about it yet?” said Tullia. “Surely we can let an hour pass, before we settle to our material calculations. A person’s death should mean something more than an inheritance.”
“It should mean as much,” said Terence.
“What is the matter?” said Jessica.
“To know all is to forgive all,” said her son. “And I do not wish you to forgive Aunt Sukey yet.”
“Why must we discuss it?” said Tullia. “It is not a thing that we need put into words.”
“That is fortunate,” said Thomas, with some grimness, “as we do not seem to be able to.”
“I long to thresh it out,” said Terence, “but I cannot be the first person to state what it is.”
“Has Sukey left her money to Anna?” said Jessica.
There was a pause.
“You know all indeed,” said Thomas. “And we shall be grateful to be put in the same position.”
“How did you find it out so soon?” said his wife.
“How indeed?” muttered Tullia, raising her shoulders. “Rushing to a dead person’s desk and dragging out her personal testament! We do not deserve to find anything to our advantage.”
“I am glad of that,” said Terence, “because I cannot bear a sense of injustice.”
“Did Sukey confide her purpose to you, Jessica?” said Thomas. “And could you not deflect her from it?”
“To tell you the truth, I thought I had done so,” said Jessica, almost with a smile. “She was vexed with us on that last day—to-day it is; how strange it seems—and she decided to alter her will, and asked me for my help.”
“And you did your best to further her purpose? You are wrong to reproach yourself with lack of attention.”
“The old will was made in my favour, and I guessed that the new one was in Anna’s. But Sukey had made other wills before, and had always destroyed them. And I felt that she was going to destroy this.”
“Mother’s thoughts had quite a long run on tangible things,” said Terence.
“I even had a feeling,” said Jessica, “that if I helped her and recognised her freedom, she would return the sooner to her normal mind. If that was a wrong or unscrupulous course, it seems to have recoiled on us all. But I thought the impulse would die down; I thought it had done so, when I left her. Indeed I thought I could see the reaction taking place. And when Anna spoke of her burning some papers, I assumed it was the new will that she had burned, especially as she had found it a relief. It had happened before, and she had been relieved, poor Sukey!”
“And I suppose it was the other one,” said Tullia.
“There was only this one in her desk,” said Thomas.
“It seems that she had not worked off her troubles,” said Jessica, in a bewildered manner. “But she was in a natural mood when I left her. I am sure of that.”
“The sun went down of her wrath indeed,” said Thomas.
A spasm went across his wife’s face.
“If she burned the old will,” she said in a slow tone, “it was not her own act, not the act of the person she was. She must have done it in delusion or error, or in some weakness that had no meaning.”
“Many wills are made in such a way,” said Thomas. “It is an evil that has no remedy and no redress.”
“It might be said that her feelings took longer to change on that day—to-day,” said Jessica, looking more troubled by her sister’s experience than by its outcome; “that she might have been slower in altering her mind. But I know that her mood had passed. She did not die in anger with us.” She turned away to hide the tears, that seemed to convulse rather than relieve her.
“Aunt Sukey will continue to influence our lives,” said Terence.
“Her last mood will do so,” said Thomas, putting an arm round his wife. “It was only one hour for her. It is for us that it will alter the future.”
“Can anything be done?” said Tullia.
“Nothing, unless Anna recognises the truth of the position, and waives her claim.”
“I can make her see how it was,” said Jessica, recovering herself, and speaking as if this would be as easy a matter with another, as it would with herself. “The truth of the matter is plain. The mistake can only make her sad for poor Sukey, and anxious to do what she wished.”
“It is not quite clear what that was,” said Thomas.
“It is to me. I am quite sure of her real mind.”
“We will not anticipate trouble,” said Tullia. “We seem to have enough without going to meet it.”
“So we are people crushed by grief,” said Terence. “And people in that state find that they are oddly distracted by trivial things. And the one that is troubling me, is that Anna has earned a little of the money, even if she gives up the whole. And it would be such a pity if she wanted any.”
“It will be easy to arrange for her to have some memento of Sukey,” said Jessica, in an almost absent tone.
“And I don’t think that sort of thing is ever money,” said Terence. “People are not provided for as a memento.”
“Is the money so much?” said Tullia.
“Enough to make all the difference to a poor man with a family,” said Thomas.
“Then it would make a disproportionate difference to Anna.”
“Of course it would,” said Terence. “Aunt Sukey could not have meant that. No one who was giving up everything herself, could want to give so much to someone else. Divided amongst a family, it would not seem too much to be borne.”
“And why did she not leave the money to Uncle Benjamin, if she wished to benefit his family?” said Tullia.
“That is another reason against a decision to leave it to Anna,” said her mother.
“Perhaps she burnt the wrong will by mistake.”
“I think that is probably the truth,” said Jessica. “She had the two wills in her hands together, and got them confused in her weakness. How I wish I could talk to her about it! We have talked of everything for fifty years. I can hardly believe that it is over.”
“Perhaps this might be a subject to be avoided,” said Terence.
“No, she was always open about things,” said Jessica, looking as if she saw her sister. “She had nothing to conceal in her life. Things were so easily put right between us.”
“I only trust this will not be an exception,” said Thomas.
“Does Anna know that everything is left to her?” said Tullia.
“No, she went before we discovered it,” said Thomas. “Her father was told the fact, but did not dwell on it. He was shaken by his sister’s death. He is still in the house.”
“We must hope that Anna will also pass it over,” said his son. “And the truth should be told him with its accompaniments, as it is those that are to neutralise it. It is a risk for it to be considered by itself. For it is likely that it will recur to him.”
“Sukey always wanted her sick fancies forgotten,” said Jessica.
“Then it was a mistake to act upon them,” said Thomas.
“It was a mistake in every sense,” said his wife.
“I see that Father has grave fears,” said Terence. “But Anna may perhaps feel that Aunt Sukey’s real wishes are sacred.”
“Well, she has always posed as being of that mind,” said Tullia.
“It was not a pose. That is not fair to her, my dear,” said Jessica.
“Would you waive your claim in her place, Tullia?” said Terence.
“Well, naturally,” said his sister, as if this went without saying.