Elders and Betters (19 page)

“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.

“WELL, I HAVE a shock for you,” said Anna, hurrying in to her family. “I daresay it won't be much to anyone but me. But I have had the bad hour of my life.”

“What is it?” said more than one voice.

“Aunt Sukey has departed this life,” said Anna, as if with an effort to be nonchalant, but moving her eyelids rapidly. “She was at a low ebb this morning; some family scene had upset her. I always thought that these troubles would hasten her end, and this one achieved it. I read her to sleep and left her. And when Father and I went back, the sleep had proved to be her last.”

There was a silence.

“How did they find it out?” said Jenney.

“I suppose they pursued their usual round, and gave her a certain amount of attention. I believe Tullia made the actual discovery.”

“Poor Tullia! She is not fit for that sort of thing,” said Bernard.

“I don't know if Aunt Sukey was fit to die alone and forgotten. Though it seemed to be accepted that she was.”

“Did she die without knowing it?” said Jenney. “What a good thing if she did!”

“We hope she went to sleep and did not wake,” said Anna. “I seem to have managed my last office for her well. It was the best that could be done.”

“Well, it is better for her,” said Jenney.

“Why do people say that, when theworst has happened?” said Bernard. “It would have been better for her to recover.”

“Well, but there wasn't any hope of that.”

“Then it would have been better to go on for a while as she was. The life she lived was better than none, and it was clear that she thought so. I suppose people want to convince themselves that it is no occasion for grief.”

“Well, we had not known her long,” said Jenney, as if accepting this standpoint. “I suppose your father is still at the other house.”

“He will be following me soon,” said Anna. “I think he is rather shaken.”