Karl smiled sadly. "Mother, after the calamities I have undergone within the past year I do not think Fate can have any worse in store for me."
"Wait--and judge. Your anger will naturally fall on me, Karl, as the chief author of it. Blame me, my son, to your heart's content: it is my just due. I would soften the story to you if I knew how: but it admits not of softening. What is done cannot be undone."
Mrs. Andinnian rose, opened the door, looked up and down the corridor, shut it again, and bolted it. "I do not need to fear eaves-droppers in the house," she observed, "and the doors are thick: but this secret is as a matter of life or death. Sit down there, Karl,"--pointing to a chair opposite her own.
"I would rather stand, mother."
"Sit down," she reiterated: and Karl took his elbow from the
mantel-piece, and obeyed her. He did not seem very much impressed with what he was about to hear: at least not to the extent that her preparation seemed to justify. Each leaned forward, looking at the other. Mrs. Andinnian had her arms on the elbows of her chair; Karl's were crossed.
"First of all, Karl, you will take an oath, a solemn vow to God, that you will never disclose this secret to any human being without my consent."
"Is this necessary, mother?"
"It is necessary for you and for me," she sharply answered, as if the question vexed her. "I tell you nothing unless you do."
Karl rose, and took the oath. Resuming his seat as before, he waited.
No, she could not say it. They sat, gazing at each other, she in agitation, he in expectancy; and for a minute or two she literally could not say what she had to say. It came forth at last. Only four words.