"I wish it had occurred to me before," cried Karl. "But indeed, the outer dangers have been so imminent as to drive other fears away."
"It will never matter, bon fère. I don't suppose all the advice in the kingdom could have saved me. What is to be will be."
"Master," put in Ann Hopley, "where's the good of your taking up a gloomy view of it, all at once? That's not the way to get well."
"Gloomy! not a bit of it," cried Sir Adam, in a voice as cheery as a lark's on a summer's morning. "Heaven is more to be desired than Portland Prison, Ann."
So Karl went forth, carrying his commission. In his heart he still trembled at it. The interests involved were so immense; the stake was so heavy for his unfortunate brother. In his extreme caution, he did not care to be seen going to the surgeon's house, but sent a note to ask him to call at the Court.
It was the dusk of evening when Mr. Moore arrived. He was shown in to Sir Karl in his own room. Giles was appearing with two wax-lights in massive silver candlesticks, but his master motioned them away.
"I can say what I have to say better by this light than in a glare," he observed to the doctor: perhaps as an opening preliminary, or intimation that the subject of the interview was not a pleasant one. And Giles shut them in alone. Karl sat sideways to the table, his elbow leaning on it; the doctor facing him with his back to the window.
"Mr. Moore," began Karl, after a pause of embarrassment, "did it ever occur to you to have a secret confided to your keeping involving life or death?"
Mr. Moore paused in his turn. The question no doubt caused him surprise. He took it--the "life or death"--to be put in a professional point of view. A suspicion came over him that he was about to be consulted for some malady connected with the (evident) fading away of Lady Andinnian.
"I do not suppose, Sir Karl, there is a single disease that flesh is heir to, whether secret or open, but what I have been consulted upon in my time."