“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.