"Well, I daresay it has happened in your experience that some poor devil doomed to a lifetime of torture, condemned, perhaps, to bear the burden of the sins of his ancestors, has begged you to furnish him with the means of escape ... there must be cases in which death is infinitely preferable to life, and a doctor must know plenty of safe ways of setting free the poor imprisoned wretch as one would free a miserable caged bird. Tell me, has such an experience ever come your way?" He spoke almost irritably now.
"Well," said Anstice, "and if it has? What then?"
"How have you answered such entreaties, I wonder? Even you can't pretend that life is always a sacred thing; that a man isn't sometimes justified in turning his back on the existence he never desired and yet has to endure." He paused, and his eyes held a queer blue glitter. "Well, have you nothing to say?"
"No," said Anstice resolutely, moving a step forward as he spoke. "On such a subject I have nothing to say—to you. If, as seems possible, you are suggesting that I should furnish either you or myself with an easy solution of the problem of our respective lives, I fear I must decline the suggestion. I'm a doctor, not a murderer, although"—suddenly he bit his lip and his face turned grey—"you, of all men, may be pardoned for thinking me ready to act as one."
The passing softness which had given him back his youth faded out of Cheniston's face; and when he spoke even his voice sounded years older.
"Well, it's no use talking, I suppose. After all"—his lip curled—"no man is dependent on another's good offices if he decides to cut short his sojourn on this delightful planet. Though it strikes me that if, as you say, you feel you owe me a debt, you might perhaps allow me to fix the method of payment."
He stopped short, taken aback by Anstice's imperious gesture.
"Look here, Cheniston." He spoke curtly, his eyes ablaze. "Life has given us both—me as well as you—a terrible jar. But you won't make things better by resenting what has happened. You have lost the woman you loved, but I have lost a good deal more. With the best intentions"—he smiled ironically at his own phrase—"I have ruined your life; and my own. I am ready to admit I owe you some reparation for the wrong I have quite innocently done you; and I am ready, also, to pay you any price in reason which you may ask, either now or in the future. But the price must be one which may decently be paid."
"I see." Cheniston spoke slowly. "I think, after all, we may shelve the question of payment between you and me. Personally I hope—you will forgive my frankness—that we may never be called upon to meet again. You see"—his voice broke, but he cleared his throat angrily and went on—"I can't help remembering that if you had waited Miss Ryder would still be alive."
Anstice was stung to a last impulse of self-defence.