“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.”