CHAPTER IV.—THE DOCTOR SPEAKS.
I confess my heart leapt into my throat, and I gasped for breath. She, witnessing my stupefaction, laughed, as if in cynical enjoyment of it.
After a little: “I think now you will permit me to bid you good evening,” she said with mock ceremoniousness.
“You—you have escaped from prison!” I faltered out.
“Yes, from the Penitentiary across the river. You see, though we have never met until to-night, we have been neighbours, living within sight each of the other's residence, for some time. Two years already I have spent, somewhat monotonously, upon Deadlock Island; and, to employ technical language, I was 'in' for a term of which that was but an insignificant fraction. I had, however, certain business to transact here in town—a little matter to arrange with the gentleman who was the principal witness for the prosecution at my trial—and I seized, therefore, upon the first opportunity that presented itself to come hither incognito. But when I arrived I found that Fate, with her usual perversity, had put it out of my power to transact that business, the party of the second part having died from natural causes. Thus the one last only purpose I had left to live for had become impossible of accomplishment. And now I wish for nothing except death. At last even you must see the absurdity of my staying longer here in your house. Let me go.”
“You say,” I rejoined, having by this time recovered somewhat of my equanimity; “you say that you wish for nothing except death. Say what you will, I do not believe that you wish for death at all.”
“To that I can only answer that you deceive yourself.”
“No, it is you who deceive yourself. What you wish for is not death, but change—a change of condition. No truer words were ever spoken than those of Tennyson's:—
Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
No life that breathes with human breath