“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?”

Philip hesitated.  It occurred to him that it would seem brutal to fetch a woman to wash the body while his uncle still lived, and he wondered why Mrs. Foster had asked him to come.  They would think he was in a great hurry to kill the old man off.  He thought the undertaker looked at him oddly.  He repeated the question.  It irritated Philip.  It was no business of his.

“When did the Vicar pass away?”

Philip’s first impulse was to say that it had just happened, but then it would seem inexplicable if the sick man lingered for several hours.  He reddened and answered awkwardly.

“Oh, he isn’t exactly dead yet.”

The undertaker looked at him in perplexity, and he hurried to explain.

“Mrs. Foster is all alone and she wants a woman there.  You understood, don’t you?  He may be dead by now.”

The undertaker nodded.

“Oh, yes, I see.  I’ll send someone up at once.”

When Philip got back to the vicarage he went up to the bed-room.  Mrs. Foster rose from her chair by the bed-side.

“He’s just as he was when you left,” she said.

She went down to get herself something to eat, and Philip watched curiously the process of death.  There was nothing human now in the unconscious being that struggled feebly.  Sometimes a muttered ejaculation issued from the loose mouth.  The sun beat down hotly from a cloudless sky, but the trees in the garden were pleasant and cool.  It was a lovely day.  A bluebottle buzzed against the windowpane.  Suddenly there was a loud rattle, it made Philip start, it was horribly frightening; a movement passed through the limbs and the old man was dead.  The machine had run down.  The bluebottle buzzed, buzzed noisily against the windowpane.