Deerbrook. Harriet Martineau

There must be something distasteful in everything that meets one’s eyes—in the sunshine itself.”

      “True. That is the feeling in such cases: but such cases seldom occur. Yes: I mean what I say. Such cases are very rare. The dying person is commonly old, or so worn out by illness as to make death at last no evil. When the illness is shorter, it is usually found that a few hours in the sick room do the work of months of common life, in reconciling the minds of survivors.”

      “I am sure that is true,” observed Margaret.

      “It is so generally the case that I know no set of circumstances in which I should more confidently reckon on the calmness, forethought, and composure of the persons I have to deal with than in the family of a dying person. The news comes suddenly to the neighbours: all the circumstances rush at once into their imaginations: all their recollections and feelings about the sufferer agitate them in quick succession; and they naturally suppose the near friends must be more agitated, in proportion to their nearness.”

      “The watchers, meanwhile,” said Hester, “have had time in the long night to go over the past and the future, again and again; and by morning all seems so familiar, that they think they can never be surprised into grief again.”

      “So familiar,” said Mr. Hope, “that their minds are at liberty for the smallest particulars of their duty. I usually find them ready for the minutest directions I may have to give.”

      “Yes: the time for surprise—for consternation—is long afterwards,” said Hester, with some emotion. “When the whole has become settled and finished in other minds, the nearest mourners begin to wake up to their mourning.”

      “And thus,” said Margaret, “the strongest agitation is happily not witnessed.”

      “Happily not,” said Mr. Hope. “I doubt whether anybody’s strongest agitations ever are witnessed. I doubt whether the sufferer himself is often aware of what are really his greatest sufferings; and he is so ashamed of them that he hides them from himself when it is possible. I cannot but think that any grief which reveals itself is very endurable.”

      “Is not that rather hard?” asked Margaret.

      “How does it seem to you hard? Is it not merciful that we can keep our worst sorrows—that we are disposed, as it were forced, to keep them from afflicting our friends?”

      “But is it not saying that bereavement of friends is not the greatest of sorrows, while all seem to agree that it is?”

      “Is it, generally speaking, the greatest of sorrows? I think not, for my own part. There are cases in which the loss is too heavy to bear being the subject of any speculation, almost of observation; for instance, when the happiest married people are separated, or when a first or only child dies: but I think there are many sorrows greater than a separation by death of those who have faith enough to live independently of each other, and mutual love enough to deserve, as they hope, to meet again hereafter. I assure you I have sometimes come away from houses unvisited, and unlikely to be visited by death, with a heart so heavy as I have rarely or never brought from a deathbed.”

      “I should have thought that would be left for the rector to say,” observed Hester. “I should have supposed you meant cases of guilt or remorse.”

      “Cases of guilt or remorse,” continued Mr. Hope, “and also of infirmity. People may say what they will, but I am persuaded that there is immeasurably more suffering endured, both in paroxysms and for a continuance, from infirmity, tendency to a particular fault, or the privation of a sense, than from the loss of any friend upon earth, except the very nearest and dearest; and even that case is no exception, when there is the faith of meeting again, which almost every mourner has, so natural and welcome as it is.”

      “Do you tell your infirm friends the high opinion you have of their sufferings?” asked Margaret.

      “Why, not exactly; that would not be the kindest thing to do, would it? What they want is, to have their trouble lightened to them, not made the worst of;—lightened, not by using any deceit, of course, but by simply treating their case as a matter of fact.”

      “Then surely you should make light of the case of the dying too: make light of it even to the survivors. Do you do this?”

      “In one sense I do; in another sense no one can do it. Not regarding death as a misfortune, I cannot affect to consider it so. Regarding the change of existence as a very serious one, I cannot, of course, make light of it.”

      “That way of looking at it regards only the dying person; you have not said how you speak of it to survivors.”

      “As I speak of it to you now, or to myself when I see any one die; with the added consideration of what the survivors are about to lose. That is a large consideration certainly; but should not one give them credit for viewing death as it is, and for being willing to bear their own loss cheerfully, as they would desire to bear any other kind of loss? especially if, as they say, they believe it to be only for a time.”

      “This as looking on the bright side,” observed Hester, in a low voice; but she was overheard by Mr. Hope.

      “I trust you do not object to the bright side of things,” said he, smiling, “as long as there is so much about us that is really very dark?”

      “What can religion be for,” said Margaret, “or reason, or philosophy, whichever name you may call your faith by, but to show us the bright side of everything—of death among the rest? I have often wondered why we seem to try to make the most of that evil (if evil it be), while we think it a duty to make the least of every other. I had some such feeling, I suppose, when I was surprised to hear that you had come hither straight from a deathbed: I do not wonder at all now.”

      “Mr. Smithson will not be much missed,” observed Sophia, who felt herself relieved from the solemnity of the occasion by what had passed, and at liberty to speak of him as freely as if he was no nearer death than ever. “He has never been a sociable neighbour. I always thought him an odd old man, from the earliest time I can remember.”

      “Some few will miss him,” said Mr. Hope. “He is a simple-hearted, shy man, who never did himself justice, except with two or three who saw most of him. Their affection has been enough for him—enough to make him think now that his life has been a very happy one. There!” cried Hope, as a lark sprang up almost from under the feet of the party—“There is another member of Deerbrook society, ladies, who is anxious to make your acquaintance.” There were two or three larks hovering above the meadow at this moment, and others were soaring further off. The air was full of lark music. The party stood still and listened. Looking up into the sunny sky, they watched one little warbler, wheeling round, falling, rising again, still warbling, till it seemed as if it could never be exhausted. Sophia said it made her head ache to look up so long; and she seemed impatient for the bird to have done. It then struck her that she also might find a nest, like her sisters; and she examined the place whence the lark had sprung. Under a thick tuft of grass, in a little hollow, she found a family of infant larks huddled together, and pointed them out to her cousins.

      The children came upon being called. They were damped in spirits. They did not see how they were to find any nests, if the ants’ nest would not do; unless, indeed, Mr. Hope would hold them up into the trees or hedges to look; but they could not climb trees, Mr. Hope knew. They were somewhat further mortified by perceiving that they might have found a nest by examining the ground, if they had happened to think of it. Margaret begged they would not be distressed at not finding nests for her; and Mr. Hope proposed to try his luck, saying, that if he succeeded, every one who wished should have a ride on his horse.

      To the surprise of the children, he turned towards the water, and walked along the bank. The brimming river was smooth as glass; and where it stood in among the rushes, and in every tiny inlet, it was as clear as the air, and alive with small fish, which darted at the flies that dimpled the surface. A swan, which had been quietly sailing in the middle of the stream, changed its deportment as the party proceeded along the bank. It ruffled its breast feathers, arched back its neck till the head rested between the erect wings, and drove through