“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.
Chapter VIII
“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.”
“Oh, I expect he was; I expect he is,” said Jenney, turning to the window, as if ready with welcome and relief.
“Who told you?” said Esmond to his sister, appearing still to read.
“The house breathed of it. The blinds were down for one thing. That was a shock when we grasped it. I missed it at first, and Father had to tell me. It was Aunt Jessica who said the actual word.”
“Oh, where is Reuben?” said Jenney, picturing the boy alone amongst these influences.
“He went into the garden with the children. He seemed quite himself,” said Anna. “The loss will not touch him very nearly.”
“What a good thing you were not alone!” said Jenney, recalled to Anna’s claims. “I am thankful that your father was with you.”
“Yes, I was glad of manly support. And Terence and Uncle Thomas were kind. I think they realised that I was rather hit by the business.”
“Did you come home alone?” said Claribel.
“Yes, I purposely drew a veil over the moment of my going. They would have had to offer me an escort, and there was enough claim on the house.”