“Not better: it is scarcely possible that he should be,” was the reply.
“Papa thought last night he must be dying.”
“He is dying.”
“Have you just come from a patient who is dying?” asked Hester, with a look of anxiety, with which was mixed some surprise.
“Yes: from one who cannot live many days.”
Sophia observed that Mr James had been sent for early this morning—no doubt to put the finish to the will: but nobody seemed to know whether the old gentleman would leave his money to his nephew or his step-son, or whether he would divide it between them. Hester and Margaret showed no anxiety on this point, but seemed so ready to be interested about some others as to make Mr Hope think that they were only restrained by delicacy from asking all that he could tell about his patient’s state. They knew enough of the profession, however, to be aware that this kind of inquiry is the last which should be addressed to a medical man.
“You are surprised,” said he, “that I am come from a dying patient to play with the children in the fields. Come, acknowledge that this is in your minds.”
“If it is, it is an unreasonable thought,” said Margaret. “You must see so many dying people, it would be hard that in every case you should be put out of the reach of pleasure.”
“Never mind the hardship, if it be fitting,” said Hope. “Hard or not hard, is it natural,—is it possible?”
“I suppose witnessing death so often does lessen the feelings about it,” observed Hester. “Yet I cannot fancy that one’s mind could be at liberty for small concerns immediately after leaving a house full of mourners, and the sight of one in pain. There must be something distasteful in everything that meets one’s eyes,—in the sunshine itself.”