“You could not, of course. But now you know what I have told you.”
“I don’t feel that I know much,” said Anna, putting back her hair once again. “It seems to me that no one can know anything. It must be all conjecture and imagination, anything one tries to construct. I think it is better not to build up theories. They only lead one further from the truth.”
“But we need not neglect what we know to be the truth,” said Thomas.
“We are not neglecting it, are we? But we know so little. Just that Aunt Sukey was burning papers, and only left this will behind. Just that and no more.”
“Even if she burnt the old will on purpose,” said Jessica, in the same tone, “it seems that it was essentially a mistake. A mistake in the sense that she would have rectified it, when she was herself. Do you not agree with me, my dear?”
“I don’t understand all these thoughts and feelings about wills,” said Anna, in a bewildered tone. “I had never thought about such things; I don’t remember that we ever talked about them. I suppose Mother made a will; indeed I know she did, because she left most of her money to Father, and just a little to each of us. But we never thought of disputing it; we just accepted it as it stood, even though she was ill when she made it, as I believe she was. I suppose people often are ill, when they come to do that particular thing. I thought people simply accepted wills. I thought it was the law, in so far as I thought about it at all.”
“For a person who thought so little, you came to sound conclusions,” said Thomas. “No one would dispute this will; there is no ground for doing so. We could not say that your aunt was mentally unsound; we do not think so. But we feel that she was not herself, when she made this change. And we want to find out what her real wishes were; and we want you to help us, so that we can carry them out together.”
“But, how can I do anything? I know absolutely nothing. Aunt Sukey never spoke to me about such things. I wish I had had her full confidence, but I had not. And I can’t make things up; I am not a person who can do it. I only find myself floundering deeper in the mire. And you are sneering at me already. I will not commit myself by another word.”
“Making things up would clearly not lead us to the truth,” said Jessica.
“Not to the real truth, of course. It depends where people want to be led. As regards the real truth, I can say no more. Aunt Sukey was clear about what she had done. She would not have slept, if she had been in doubt. You know her well enough to realise that.”
“We cannot assume anything about her state, an hour before her death,” said Thomas. “She could hardly have been in a normal one, and her actions may not have been her own.”
“Her feelings may have gone further than usual,” said Jessica, in a musing tone. “But they had passed when I left her. I know that I saw them pass. If she did not burn the wrong will by accident, which is the most likely solution, she must have hidden her mind in a way quite foreign to herself. It is another proof that she was in an unnatural state. If I were not sure beyond doubt, I would not say a word of it.”
“I know you would not,” said Anna; “I don’t suppose anyone would, or anyhow anyone here. No one would build on anything that was not real evidence. There would be no end to the constructions that could be made.”
“She would have wished to put right what she had done,” said Jessica, half to herself. “And so Anna must wish to do it for her. I cannot see it in any other way, and so I do not suppose she can. She can make over the money by deed of gift; it will be no trouble for her.” Jessica did not suggest, or mean to suggest, that generosity would be involved. Her niece might shrink from perplexing formalities, but would do the only thing to be done.
“By deed of gift,” said Anna, seeming inclined to laugh. “I never heard that phrase before, but it sounds a very good one. That would be a neat way of dealing with bequests, as they arose; just to render them null and void.” She laughed again, as if she could not help it.
“What do your brothers think about it?” said Thomas.
“We did not know Aunt Sukey well enough to have an opinion,” said Bernard.
“What do you think, Benjamin?”
“As Bernard does, though it may seem strange for me to say it. I thought I knew my sister, but there may have been things that I did not know. When I came back into her life, I found that there were. I was surprised by the will, but I have been surprised by wills before. Indeed I have never met a will that did not surprise someone. I have no ground on which to advise my daughter. Many people would alter their wills, if they died at some other time.”
“What does Mr. Terence think?” said Anna, in an almost rallying tone.
“I knew Aunt Sukey too well, to take any view but my mother’s. But I do not feel that adjustment must necessarily follow.”
“Did you know her so well?” said Anna, looking at him as if in some curiosity.
“Yes, I went through your stage with her, and remained in it longer. But it came to an end with me, as it would have with you.”
“I never felt it was a stage,” said Anna, speaking to herself in the manner of Jessica.
“She could not stay the course with anyone,” said Terence.
“Ought not that to be put the other way round?”
“I daresay it ought in a sense. She wore us all down, as you say.”
“I never knew such a family for giving turns and twists to people’s minds and phrases,” said Anna, in a bewildered manner. “I said and meant nothing of the sort. She never wore me down. I felt that I should come to see her every day of my life. I had no thought of its all breaking up so soon. And Father felt the same. It is only fair to her to say it.”
“It is, my dear,” said Jessica. “And it is good for us to know it; good in two senses, you might say. We have dealt with the matter now; and when you have judged it in the light of what you have heard, you will tell me. And if you say nothing, I shall know we are not of one mind.”
“What does Tullia think?” said Anna, looking at her cousin.
“I have not followed the matter,” said the latter, withdrawing her eyes from the window. “I hardly grasp what it has been about. Wills and bequests and other kindred things. I thought they were managed by lawyers behind the scenes. I did not know they came into the light of day.”
“They are the affair of people who have gone,” said Bernard. “That puts them out of harmony with those who are left.”
“Something does,” said his brother.
“Well, are there no other topics of conversation?” said Tullia.
“I was beginning to wonder that,” said Anna. “I was going to ask for a photograph of Aunt Sukey. Even Father has not one of her. She was going to give me one, but the subject passed off somehow.’’
“Was she?” said Jessica, looking at her niece. “She never had her photograph taken. She thought she photographed badly, and she destroyed all those we had in the house. And they did not do her justice. She had not been taken for thirty years. I don’t know what she could have meant by that.”
“Or have I got it twisted in some way? That would be rather in my character. I asked her if she would have her portrait painted. And she said she would give me a photograph of it, if she ever did. I think that was it. She did not seem so averse from that. It is like me to turn a little matter the wrong way round. Happily, I get a better grasp of big ones.”
“That must seem a painfully apposite metaphor,” murmured Esmond.