“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.