“I do.  You have not implied to me that the symptoms which—­ I am bound to testify—­you watched with scrupulous care, were those of a fatal disease.  But were it so, Mr. Lydgate, I should desire to know the truth without reservation, and I appeal to you for an exact statement of your conclusions:  I request it as a friendly service.  If you can tell me that my life is not threatened by anything else than ordinary casualties, I shall rejoice, on grounds which I have already indicated.  If not, knowledge of the truth is even more important to me.”

“Then I can no longer hesitate as to my course,” said Lydgate; “but the first thing I must impress on you is that my conclusions are doubly uncertain—­uncertain not only because of my fallibility, but because diseases of the heart are eminently difficult to found predictions on.  In any ease, one can hardly increase appreciably the tremendous uncertainty of life.”

Mr. Casaubon winced perceptibly, but bowed.

“I believe that you are suffering from what is called fatty degeneration of the heart, a disease which was first divined and explored by Laennec, the man who gave us the stethoscope, not so very many years ago.  A good deal of experience—­a more lengthened observation—­is wanting on the subject.  But after what you have said, it is my duty to tell you that death from this disease is often sudden.  At the same time, no such result can be predicted.  Your condition may be consistent with a tolerably comfortable life for another fifteen years, or even more.  I could add no information to this beyond anatomical or medical details, which would leave expectation at precisely the same point.”  Lydgate’s instinct was fine enough to tell him that plain speech, quite free from ostentatious caution, would be felt by Mr. Casaubon as a tribute of respect.

“I thank you, Mr. Lydgate,” said Mr. Casaubon, after a moment’s pause.  “One thing more I have still to ask:  did you communicate what you have now told me to Mrs. Casaubon?”

“Partly—­I mean, as to the possible issues.”  Lydgate was going to explain why he had told Dorothea, but Mr. Casaubon, with an unmistakable desire to end the conversation, waved his hand slightly, and said again, “I thank you,” proceeding to remark on the rare beauty of the day.

Lydgate, certain that his patient wished to be alone, soon left him; and the black figure with hands behind and head bent forward continued to pace the walk where the dark yew-trees gave him a mute companionship in melancholy, and the little shadows of bird or leaf that fleeted across the isles of sunlight, stole along in silence as in the presence of a sorrow.  Here was a man who now for the first time found himself looking into the eyes of death—­ who was passing through one of those rare moments of experience when we feel the truth of a commonplace, which is as different from what we call knowing it, as the vision of waters upon the earth is different from the delirious