Elders and Betters (17 page)

“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.”