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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 un-
speakable.
‘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?’
‘Yes.’
There was a silence. Philip sat by the bed-side, and occa-
sionally wiped the sweating forehead.
‘Let me hold your hand, Philip,’ the old man said at last.
Philip gave him his hand and he clung to it as to life, for
comfort in his extremity. Perhaps he had never really loved
anyone in all his days, but now he turned instinctively to a
human being. His hand was wet and cold. It grasped Phil-
ip’s with feeble, despairing energy. The old man was fighting
with the fear of death. And Philip thought that all must go

0 Of Human Bondage