William Somerset Maugham Fullscreen The burden of human passions (1915)

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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.

CXII

Josiah Graves in his masterful way made arrangements, becoming but economical, for the funeral; and when it was over came back to the vicarage with Philip.

The will was in his charge, and with a due sense of the fitness of things he read it to Philip over an early cup of tea.

It was written on half a sheet of paper and left everything Mr. Carey had to his nephew.

There was the furniture, about eighty pounds at the bank, twenty shares in the A. B. C. company, a few in Allsop's brewery, some in the Oxford music-hall, and a few more in a London restaurant.

They had been bought under Mr. Graves' direction, and he told Philip with satisfaction:

"You see, people must eat, they will drink, and they want amusement.

You're always safe if you put your money in what the public thinks necessities."

His words showed a nice discrimination between the grossness of the vulgar, which he deplored but accepted, and the finer taste of the elect.

Altogether in investments there was about five hundred pounds; and to that must be added the balance at the bank and what the furniture would fetch.

It was riches to Philip.

He was not happy but infinitely relieved.