Of Human Bondage, W. Somerset Maugham [ebook reader that looks like a book .txt] 📗

“I thought it was all up with me yesterday,” he said, in an exhausted voice. “They’d all given me up, hadn’t you, Mrs. Foster?”

“You’ve got a wonderful constitution, there’s no denying that.”

“There’s life in the old dog yet.”

Mrs. Foster said that the Vicar must not talk, it would tire him; she treated him like a child, with kindly despotism; and there was something childish in the old man’s satisfaction at having cheated all their expectations. It struck him at once that Philip had been sent for, and he was amused that he had been brought on a fool’s errand. If he could only avoid another of his heart attacks he would get well enough in a week or two; and he had had the attacks several times before; he always felt as if he were going to die, but he never did. They all talked of his constitution, but they none of them knew how strong it was.

“Are you going to stay a day or two?” He asked Philip, pretending to believe he had come down for a holiday.

“I was thinking of it,” Philip answered cheerfully.

“A breath of sea-air will do you good.”

Presently Dr. Wigram came, and after he had seen the Vicar talked with Philip. He adopted an appropriate manner.

“I’m afraid it is the end this time, Philip,” he said. “It’ll be a great loss to all of us. I’ve known him for five-and-thirty years.”

“He seems well enough now,” said Philip.

“I’m keeping him alive on drugs, but it can’t last. It was dreadful these last two days, I thought he was dead half a dozen times.”

The doctor was silent for a minute or two, but at the gate he said suddenly to Philip:

“Has Mrs. Foster said anything to you?”

“What d’you mean?”

“They’re very superstitious, these people: she’s got hold of an idea that he’s got something on his mind, and he can’t die till he gets rid of it; and he can’t bring himself to confess it.”

Philip did not answer, and the doctor went on.

“Of course it’s nonsense. He’s led a very good life, he’s done his duty, he’s been a good parish priest, and I’m sure we shall all miss him; he can’t have anything to reproach himself with. I very much doubt whether the next vicar will suit us half so well.”

For several days Mr. Carey continued without change. His appetite which had been excellent left him, and he could eat little. Dr. Wigram did not hesitate now to still the pain of the neuritis which tormented him; and that, with the constant shaking of his palsied limbs, was gradually exhausting him. His mind remained clear. Philip and Mrs. Foster nursed him between them. She was so tired by the many months during which she had been attentive to all his wants that Philip insisted on sitting up with the patient so that she might have her night’s rest. He passed the long hours in an armchair so that he should not sleep soundly, and read by the light of shaded candles the Thousand and One Nights. He had not read them since he was a little boy, and they brought back his childhood to him. Sometimes he sat and listened to the silence of the night. When the effects of the opiate wore off Mr. Carey grew restless and kept him constantly busy.

At last, early one morning, when the birds were chattering noisily in the trees, he heard his name called. He went up to the bed. Mr. Carey was lying on his back, with his eyes looking at the ceiling; he did not turn them on Philip. Philip saw that sweat was on his forehead, and he took a towel and wiped it.

“Is that you, Philip?” the old man asked.

Philip was startled because the voice was suddenly changed. It was hoarse and low. So would a man speak if he was cold with fear.

“Yes, d’you want anything?”

There was a pause, and still the unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling. Then a twitch passed over the face.

“I think I’m going to die,” he said.

“Oh, what nonsense!” cried Philip. “You’re not going to die for years.”

Two tears were wrung from the old man’s eyes. They moved Philip horribly. His uncle had never betrayed any particular emotion in the affairs of life; and it was dreadful to see them now, for they signified a terror that was unspeakable.

“Send for Mr. Simmonds,” he said. “I want to take the Communion.”

Mr. Simmonds was the curate.

“Now?” asked Philip.

“Soon, or else it’ll be too late.”

Philip went to awake Mrs. Foster, but it was later than he thought and she was up already. He told her to send the gardener with a message, and he went back to his uncle’s room.

“Have you sent for Mr. Simmonds?”

“Yes.”

There was a silence. Philip sat by the bedside, and occasionally wiped the sweating forehead.

“Let me hold your hand, Philip,” the old man said at last.

Philip gave him his hand and he clung to it as to life, for comfort in his extremity. Perhaps he had never really loved anyone in all his days, but now he turned instinctively to a human being. His hand was wet and cold. It grasped Philip’s with feeble, despairing energy. The old man was fighting with the fear of death. And Philip thought that all must go through that. Oh, how monstrous it was, and they could believe in a God that allowed his creatures to suffer such a cruel torture! He had never cared for his uncle, and for two years he had longed every day for his death; but now he could not overcome the compassion that filled his heart. What a price it was to pay for being other than the beasts!

They remained in silence broken only once by a low inquiry from Mr. Carey.

“Hasn’t he come yet?”

At last the housekeeper came in softly to say that Mr. Simmonds was there. He carried a bag in which were his surplice and his hood. Mrs. Foster brought the communion plate. Mr. Simmonds shook hands silently with Philip, and then with professional gravity went to the