Chapter 111 Chapter 111

The next day, Philip started working again, but the end of his uncle, which he had been waiting for for weeks, was still unknown.Time flies, weeks turn into months.As winter draws to a close, the trees in the park sprout new shoots, and then, fluffy young leaves.A feeling of ennui troubled Philip.Although the time passes tiresomely slowly, it is like water, and it will never return.He thought, his youth is passing by, and his youth will be gone forever in a snap of his fingers, but he may still fail to achieve success, fail to achieve fame, and achieve nothing.Now that he was sure to quit his current job, it seemed all the more meaningless.He was a skilled dressmaker; and though he had no gift for invention, Philip had a nimble mind for adapting French fashions to the English market.Sometimes, he is very satisfied with his design patterns, but the workers always mess up his patterns due to poor technology in the production process.He was amused to notice that he had become agitated when his ideas were not being effectively followed through.He had to watch every step.Mr. Sampson flatly turned him down whenever he offered an original idea: their customers didn't want anything out of the ordinary; Too much intimacy is not worth it.Once or twice he gave Philip a hard time, thinking the young man was a little pretentious, because Philip's ideas were not always right with his.

"You have to watch out, my good boy, or you'll be thrown into the street one day!" Philip wanted to punch him right on the bridge of the nose, but he held back.After all, such days will not be too long.At that time, he will never associate with these people forever.Sometimes, he howled ridiculously and desperately, saying that his uncle must be a man of iron and brass.What a strong physique!The kind of disease he had, perhaps as early as a year ago, could send any good-looking person to hell.Finally, when the news arrived that the vicar was dying, Philip was caught off guard.At the time, he had been thinking about other things.It's July now, and in half a month, he will go on vacation.He had a letter from Mrs. Foster, in which the doctor concluded that Mr. Carey was not long to live, and that if Philip wished to see him again he would come at once.Philip went to the shopkeeper and said he was leaving.Mr. Sampson was a reasonable man, and when he learned of the situation, he made no trouble.Philip said good-bye to the people in his department.The reasons for his departure were widely exaggerated among his colleagues, who believed that he had acquired a fortune.Mrs. Hodges had tears in her eyes as she bade him good-bye.

"I don't think we'll see you very often anymore," she said. "I'm still happy to leave this Lane's," replied Philip. Strange to say, he had a hard time leaving people he thought he had always loathed.Nor was he happy as he drove away from the house on Harrington Street.He had foreshadowed all the emotions he would have on such occasions in the past, but now he took it easy and didn't care, thinking it was just a few days' vacation by himself. "My temper has become very bad now," he said to himself. "I always look forward to certain things, but when these things come, I always feel disappointed."

He reached Blackstable in the afternoon.Mrs. Foster met him at the door.Her face told him that his uncle was still alive. "He's feeling better today," said Mrs. Foster. "He's in great shape." She led Philip into the bedroom, where Mr. Carey lay on his back.He gave Philip a faint smile of that sly, contented look which came out of him after another victory over an adversary. "I think I lost everything yesterday," he muttered with difficulty. "They've given up all hope of me. Don't you, too, Mrs. Foster?" "Your physique is very strong, there can be no doubt about it."

"Although I'm old, I'm not exhausted yet!" Mrs. Foster said the priest couldn't talk, it would be exhausting.She treats him like a child, lovingly and dictatorially.The old man saw himself as contented as a child in shattering all their expectations.He suddenly realized that someone had called Philip back on purpose, but he could not help but smile to himself at the thought that Philip had made the trip in vain.In the past, he had had many heart attacks, and he always felt as if he was going to die, but he still didn't die.He should be perfectly fine in a week or two if the heart attack doesn't stop.They all talked about his physique, but none of them knew how strong his physique really was.

"Are you only staying for a day or two?" he asked Philip, pretending to think that Philip was on vacation. "That's exactly what I think," replied Philip cheerfully. "A few breaths of sea air will do you good." At this moment Dr. Wigram came, and having seen the chaplain, he began to talk to Philip.His lift is moderate. "I'm afraid he's going to get it right this time," he said. "It's a great loss to all of us. I've known him for thirty-five years." "He looks all right now," said Philip. "I'm using medicine to prolong his life, but it won't last long. It's been critical for the last two days. I think he's died maybe five or six times."

The doctor was silent for a minute or two.But, at the door, he said suddenly to Philip: "Did Mrs. Foster say anything to you?" "What do you mean by that?" "They're superstitious people. Mrs. Foster thinks he has something on his mind, and it's out of his mind. He's not shutting his mouth, but he won't talk about it." Philip listened and did not answer, so the doctor went on: "Of course, that was all bullshit. He lived his life clean and fulfilled his duties, and has been a good vicar in our parish. He has nothing to reproach himself for. I'm sure we will all miss him .Whether his successor will be half as good as he is, I doubt it."

For several days, Mr. Carey's condition remained the same without any improvement.He lost his formerly excellent appetite and ate very little.Now Dr. Wigram was unwilling to try to relieve the pain of neuritis that tormented him, and the pain of neuritis, combined with the constant trembling of his paralyzed limbs, exhausted him.But his mind was still clear.Philip and Mrs. Foster took turns attending him.She had been worn down by the many months in which she had devoted herself to his care.For this reason, Philip insisted on staying with the patient all night so that she could sleep through the night.He would not allow himself to fall asleep, but sat in an easy chair, reading The Arabian Nights by shaded candlelight, and whiled away the long nights.He had read this book when he was a child, and at this time, the stories in the book brought him back to his childhood.Sometimes he sat quietly, listening to the silence of the night with bated breath.As the opiate effects wore off, Mr. Carey became restless and kept Philip busy.

Finally, one morning, when the little bird was chirping in the tree, he heard his name being called, and hurried to the sickbed.Mr. Carey lay on his back, staring at the ceiling without turning his eyes to Philip.Philip saw that his brow was dripping with sweat, and he took a towel and wiped it away. "Is that Philip?" asked the old man. Philip couldn't help being startled, because his voice suddenly became strange, it was low and hoarse.This is how a person speaks when he is afraid and uneasy in his heart. "Yes. Do you want something?" There was a pause.Those blind eyes stared straight at the ceiling.His face twitched.

"I think I'm dying," he said. "Why, what nonsense!" exclaimed Philip, "you won't die in three or five years." Two lines of tears welled up in the old man's eyes, and Philip was deeply moved.In all his life he never showed any particular emotion.At this moment Philip felt a little frightened at what he saw, for these two old tears meant an unspeakable terror. "Go and fetch Mr. Simmons," said his uncle, "I want communion." Mr Simmons is curate of the parish. "Shall we go now?" asked Philip. "Go now before it's too late."

Philip went out to wake Mrs. Foster, but it was too late. Mrs. Foster was already up.Philip told her to send a gardener with a message, and then turned back to his uncle's bedroom. "Have you sent for Mr Simmons?" "Someone has been sent." The room was silent.Philip sat on the edge of the bed, occasionally wiping the sweat from his uncle's forehead. "Let me hold your hand, Philip," said the old man at last. Philip stretched out his hand to him, and he grasped it desperately as if grasping his own life, as if seeking spiritual support in a critical situation.Maybe he had never really loved anyone in his life, but right now he was instinctively turning to someone for help.His hands were wet and cold, and he held Philip's hand weakly and desperately.The old man was battling death threats.Who could escape this, Philip thought.Oh, how dreadful is the situation, and yet people believe in a God who makes his faithful men and women so cruelly tortured!He never cared about his uncle, for the past two years, he had been wishing for his uncle to die soon; but now he couldn't overcome his pity.What a price to pay to be different from the beasts! They remained silent.Only once did Mr. Carey ask in a weak voice: "Has he not come yet?" At last the butler crept in quietly, announcing the arrival of Mr Simmons.The butler carried in his hand a bag containing a white surplice and hood.Mrs. Foster held the communion bowl in both hands.Mr Simmons shook Philip's hand silently, and then he approached the patient with the seriousness of his profession.Philip and the housekeeper left the room. Philip walked about the garden.In the morning light, everything is so moist and refreshing.The birds were singing joyously; the sky was blue and filled with a majestic air, fragrant and cool; the roses were in full bloom.The trees are lush and green, the green lawn is full of brilliance.Philip walked up and down, thinking about the mysterious business that was going on in the room at this time.A strange emotion could not help rising in his heart.Presently Mrs. Foster came out of the room and came up to him, saying that his uncle wanted to see him.The curate was packing his things into the black bag.The patient turned his head slightly and greeted him with a smile.Philip was taken aback by this change in him, this extraordinary change.The look of horror was gone from his eyes, and the look of pain was gone from his face, and he looked happy and at peace. "I'm ready now," he said, changing his tone now. "Once God decides to call me, I dedicate my heart to Him with all my heart and soul." Philip was silent.He could see that his uncle was sincere.It was nothing short of a miracle.He had the blood of his savior, and it gave him the strength to take away his fear of his inevitable descent into Hades.He knew in his heart that he was about to die, and he resigned himself to fate.But he added: "I will be back with my dear wife." After hearing this, Philip couldn't help being stunned.He still remembered how indifferent and selfish his uncle had been to her, how insensitive and indifferent to her humble and faithful love.The curate, however, was so moved that he turned away, and Mrs. Foster, sobbing, escorted the curate to the door.Mr. Carey dozed off with fatigue, and Philip sat at the head of his bed, waiting quietly for his uncle's death.The morning wore on slowly, and the old man's breathing gradually changed to a snore.The doctor came and said the old man was dying.Delirious, he kissed the sheets feebly.He squirmed and yelled.Dr. Wigram gave him a hypodermic injection. "This injection is useless now, and he may die at any time." The doctor looked at his watch and then at the patient.Philip saw that it was ten o'clock.Dr. Wigram was thinking about dinner. "You needn't wait," said Philip. "There's nothing I can do," replied the doctor. After the doctor had gone, Mrs. Foster asked Philip if he would go to the carpenter and undertaker, and that he should have him send a woman to arrange the coffin. "You need a little fresh air," she said, "and it will do you good." The undertaker lived half a mile away.When Philip explained his purpose to him, he asked: "When did the poor old gentleman die?" Philip hesitated to answer.It occurred to him that it seemed cruel to ask a woman to wipe his uncle's body before he died.At the same time, he wondered to himself why Mrs. Foster had sent him up here?They might think he couldn't wait to kill the old man.He felt that the undertaker was looking at him strangely.The undertaker repeated the question, which made Philip feel uncomfortable, and muttered: What the hell is that bothering him? "When did the pastor die?" At first Philip could not help answering that the vicar had just died, but then it occurred to him that if his uncle had been left for a few more hours it would be inexplicable.Unconsciously, he blushed and replied embarrassingly: "Oh, he's not dead yet." The undertaker looked at Philip in bewilderment, when Philip explained hastily: "Mrs. Foster is home alone and needs a woman to help her. Do you understand? He's probably dead by now." The undertaker nodded. "Oh yes, I see. I'll send someone right away." When Philip got back to the vicarage he went straight into the bedroom.Mrs. Foster got up from a chair beside the bed. "He's the same as when you left," she said. She went downstairs to get something to eat, while Philip watched in wonder the progress of death.At this moment, there was no human smell in the weakly struggling, unconscious body.Sometimes a low moan escaped from between those slack lips.The scorching sun was shining in the sky, shining on the earth, and the trees in the garden were whirling, and the shade was cool and pleasant.What a beautiful day!A blowfly buzzed and struck the windowpane.All at once there was a terrible rattling in his ears, which startled Philip so much that his hair stood on end.After a convulsion of limbs, the old man died.The machine finally stopped working.The blowfly whirled and whirled, occasionally making a loud noise against the windowpanes.