“I shall rejoin my dear wife.”
It startled Philip. He remembered with what a callous selfishness his uncle had treated her, how obtuse he had been to her humble, devoted love. The curate, deeply moved, went away and Mrs. Foster, weeping, accompanied him to the door. Mr. Carey, exhausted by his effort, fell into a light doze, and Philip sat down by the bed and waited for the end. The morning wore on, and the old man’s breathing grew stertorous. The doctor came and said he was dying. He was unconscious and he pecked feebly at the sheets; he was restless and he cried out. Dr. Wigram gave him a hypodermic injection.
“It can’t do any good now, he may die at any moment.”
The doctor looked at his watch and then at the patient. Philip saw that it was one o’clock. Dr. Wigram was thinking of his dinner.
“It’s no use your waiting,” he said.
“There’s nothing I can do,” said the doctor.
When he was gone Mrs. Foster asked Philip if he would go to the carpenter, who was also the undertaker, and tell him to send up a woman to lay out the body.
“You want a little fresh air,” she said, “it’ll do you good.”
The undertaker lived half a mile away. When Philip gave him his message, he said:
“When did the poor old gentleman die?”