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?”