by S. T. Joshi
It was some days before I could recover full possession of myself, for by some unexplained means I had been thrown into a condition of wilder disorder than was customary even with me. Vaguely was Annette associated with this condition, and with a certain impatience I felt a resentment toward her—toward innocent, unhappy, unselfish Annette; and it added somewhat to my resentment to reflect that she was now eighteen, and beyond the legal reach of my protecting guardianship. It is true, she had no means for her maintenance, but I should not grudge her that from my modest earnings. This charge upon my income doubtless would keep me from marrying and having a home with all its sweet comforts, but was Annette to blame for that? and did this weaken the force of my obligation? And then, she might marry or become self-sustaining—. But at that moment the following note was brought to me:
“My Dear Guardian:
“You have not been to see me since the day of my graduation, but I am glad to know that you have not been ill. Perhaps it is better that you did not come, for I know that I should not have had the courage to thank you for all that you have done for me. How can I thank you now? Every word, look, and act of kindness from you through all these past years will remain a precious recollection.
“Pardon me, my friend; but I can live no longer upon your bounty. I am a woman and of legal age, and my first right and duty are to maintain myself. Knowing your generosity and unselfishness, I must not let you know whither I go, but if all goes well with me you shall know.
“Farewell, my best, my dearest friend.
Annette.”
The blow was swift and cruel, but above all other feelings there struggled to the front one of bitter chagrin. So Annette had run away from me; so, after all, it was proved that I was nothing to her, and that now, when she was armed to make her own fight for life, she had no further use for me; so, she believed that my friendship was worthless, my guidance and assistance useless; and thus Annette had shaken me off as an ugly dream, leaving me bruised, humiliated, cut to the heart.
As the days passed by my resentment softened, and then there came upon me a fear that Annette’s mind was deranged. Sometimes long ago I feared it, but not expected it. If I should find her with her mind awry, my duty would be clear; but if it should be otherwise how could I thrust my presence and friendship upon her? Her conduct had been a sufficient hint. The weeks passed, and my fear for her safety grew steadily. It looked bad that not a word had come from her. San Francisco was hardly large enough to afford absolute concealment, but it was large enough to starve in. How could Annette, with her dainty tastes, shrinking disposition and fragile body earn a livelihood there? Would she rather starve than be near me?
My fears finally impelled me to make a search, and for this purpose I employed a man named Greatwood. “I do not wish to see her,” I instructed him, “nor does she wish to see me. If you find her tell her nothing, but report to me.”
It was a harder task than I had imagined, but one day Greatwood came to me with a strange expression on his face. “I have found her,” he said, “and she is in a very bad situation.”
“Tell me about it, Greatwood,” I begged, for his words gave me a quick, measurable pain and a great eagerness.
“Well,” he said, “she has been sewing and trying to teach, but she was not strong enough, and her health broke down. It is a wonder she has lived so long. The people in the house have been kind to her, but she refuses to accept food from them, protesting that she is not in need of it. Matters reached a climax only last night. Some one heard a strange noise in the room—a very slight sound, but sufficient to attract the attention of a nervous woman in an adjoining room. She roused her husband, and they went to the girl’s room. The door was locked; there was no answer to their calls and rapping. They burst open the door—”
“Is she still alive, Greatwood?” I gasped, springing to my feet.
“Yes; but they found something worse than her attempt.”
“What was it, man?”
“She was starving.”
“Come, Greatwood,” I cried, “take me to her.”
“But you said—”
“Come—there is not a moment to lose.”
We went as fast as horses driven furiously could take us. Oh, what a shabby, wretched place for Annette, and the poor, bare room in which she lived! I went straight to the bedside and gently raised the slight, emaciated form of my poor Annette—my Annette, I say—and pressed her to my heart. She knew me, and feebly put her arms around my neck—the first time she had done this in all her life.
“I didn’t think you would care to see me,” she faintly said, and tears of happiness streamed down her wan cheeks; and there came into her beautiful blue eyes just such a look as that which lighted them up on the day when she found me in the great crowd at the convent. The doctor who had been summoned that night to attend her had left an injunction that she be given a broth; but the woman there told me that she had refused to take it. I ordered another at once. Annette watched me all the time, but said nothing, and her tears continued to flow. I was sure that I tried very hard to be kind and gentle with her. I said little, because she was very weak. I gave issue to not a word of chiding—how could I? But for all that there must have been something in my manner that disturbed her, for she soon became restless. What was there lacking in my conduct? Was it sympathy? Surely I felt it with all my heart. It is true, I could not forget Annette’s past treatment of me—not that it should affect either my sympathy or my sense of duty, but that it indicated her dislike of my care and attention. I felt that I was guilty of a rude intrusion upon her now; for I was interfering in a manner that lay wholly between her and her Maker; and I found in her desolate condition a sufficient explanation of the fleeting happiness which she felt upon seeing me. This had worn off quickly enough, but not sooner than I had expected. Even before the broth arrived my presence had apparently become a positive annoyance to her. She shook her head, and I pleaded earnestly with her. Her look hardened all the more.
“But you must, Annette,” I said.
Her eyes flashed with a quick look of defiance.
“No—come closer. Send the others away; I want to tell you something.... You are and always have been very kind to me...much kinder than I deserve or have ever deserved.... I can never repay you, because...I shall not live long enough.”
“Annette!”
Her eyes brightened and a flush came into her deathly pale cheeks.
“It is true,” she said, speaking more rapidly—“it is true. I am determined to go.”
“What do you mean, Annette?”
“You know what I mean,” she gasped, struggling to raise herself upon her elbow. “You know what I mean.”
I knew then, for even if her words had failed to convey her dreadful meaning, the resolution in her beautiful eyes would have been sufficient information.
“You know what I mean,” she repeated, “and it will be worse than cruel in you to interfere.”
In spite of my philosophy; in spite of my belief in those unhappy days that the right to take one’s own life was inherent, sacred, and inalienable; in spite of my conviction that none had the right to interfere and that all would better be dead than living; in spite of my opinion that among all those whom I knew—the sore afflicted, the deranged, the unhappy, the abandoned and desolate—none would find a happier release in death than my poor Annette,—in spite of all these things my heart seemed to die within me when a full realization of her terrible determination broke upon me. For my conscience was alarmed, and the memory of neglected visits and other attentions and kindnesses was aroused into unhappy activity. Possibly I could have made her life brighter and kept at bay the gloom and sense of loneliness that had become despair.
But what could be done? I knew that Annette was proud, and that the end of all things with her had come. Despite her generous effort to show appreciation of the little I had done for her so meanly, I saw that my presence was irksome and my influence an evil. What could I do
?
“Annette, do you not think it is wrong to do what you contemplate?”
“Ah, yes,” she replied, sinking back upon her pillow and covering her face with her hands.
“Then,” said I, “you know you should not do it. I don’t wish to dictate to you or preach a sermon, but let me assure you, Annette, that violence to conscience is unnatural and unholy, and that it is unworthy of you. Think well, my child.... And if I do not seem indelicate—how can I say without wounding you, Annette, that you need not fear the lack of such friendship in substantial form as I am able to give you?”
There was a long silence, and I knew that she was sobbing. Hope quickened within me, only to be strangled at once, for Annette brokenly said this:
“I appreciate your kindness and thank you with all my heart, but—but—I am determined.”
Should I resort to harsh measures to restrain her? That would be mean and cowardly.... Annette must go.... That deadening realization forced itself upon me.... I would not interfere with the exercise of a right which I considered sacred.... Only one thing was left for me to do—I must be a friend now.
“Annette,” said I, “if you have the strength to listen to me I will tell you something very strange, and suitable only for the ears of those who contemplate the end with the willing mind of one anxious to accomplish it. It will not save you to me, but it will save your conscience to you, and your wish will be gratified without outrage to your sense of right.”
Annette fixed a very earnest look upon me.
“I don’t understand how that can be,” she said.
“You are too weak. Take some of this broth, and then I will tell you a thing exceedingly strange and of the deepest interest to you.”
With surprising confidence in me, she swallowed the broth, and its good effect soon became manifest; and when a little color had come to her cheeks and a healthier brightness to her eyes, I told her substantially the following:
“I have a friend named Reiferth, a German of about my own age, and he and I have the same ideas concerning the matter that is in your mind. Now, as a fear of punishment in a future life deters many from committing the act who would be better off if not so restrained, Reiferth conceived the idea of forming a company which would undertake, for an ample consideration, to remove from this life, without inflicting pain, those who earnestly wish to go but fear to take the step for one reason or another, and who will submit themselves to the company to do for them what they fear to do for themselves. I refused, much to Reiferth’s surprise, to become a member of the company; whereupon he charged me with inconsistency, and maintained that the purpose of the company was wholly noble and humane. I believed that it was, but I did not desire to embark in such an enterprise. Reiferth then declared that, knowing the scheme to be unlawful and its practice attended with the gravest dangers, with the penitentiary or the scaffold a constant menace to its success, I was afraid to become his associate. I made no rejoinder to that charge. Then Reiferth asked me to help him if it should come in my way, and I promised that I would. Reiferth put his plan in operation in the very heart of San Francisco, and there is evidence that he has prospered amazingly.
“Annette,” I said in conclusion, “I offer you this opportunity for accomplishing your purpose without doing violence to your conscience. What do you think of it?”
[I have no desire to justify myself in this matter, nor to deny the right of criticism which the unusual position here advanced may invite; but while I know that the scheme here proposed may be denounced as but a form of suicide, and that its acceptance would bring all the penalties supposed to attach to that act, I have to say that I see little difference between its essence and that of knowingly acquiring habits and following practices which lead to the same result. It was important in this case that I impress upon Annette the idea of avoiding outrage to her conscience.]
Annette had listened with an interest that absorbed every faculty; and when I had finished she sat upright in great excitement, and somewhat to my dismay she said:
“Do you know where the place is?”
“Yes.”
“What is it called?”
“The Removal Company.”
“Will you take me to it?”
“Annette,—”
“Will you?”
“Immediately?”
“Yes; now.”
“You are not strong enough, Annette.”
“I am perfectly well,” she responded, springing to her feet and commencing a few preparations.
With a heart so heavy that it almost dragged me to the floor I left the room and found my carriage still waiting. I went upstairs again, and Annette at once took my arm and walked firmly down to the street. So strange a numbness possessed me that I hardly believed I was in my right mind. In the carriage Annette, who was now all eagerness and activity, saw that something was wrong with me.
“Why,” she cried, “you are ill!”
“I think not, Annette.”
“I am taxing you too greatly—I am asking too much of you...but it will soon be over.”
We arrived at the quarters of the Removal Company—a silent old brick house, with little exterior sign of occupancy. It was not far from the long warehouses that lie under the afternoon shadow of Telegraph Hill, and was in one of those districts which a vagrant fashion of migration had left a mere trace of former enterprise. Within the house all was brightness and modest luxury. Reiferth was a man of taste. He welcomed us very cheerfully. “I am sorry to see you ill, though,” he said to me. He had a kind and gentle manner, and he handled with the utmost tact and delicacy the business in hand. I was hardly able to stand when Annette advanced to bid me farewell. Tears were in her eyes and she was pale, but her determination was firm and her courage unflinching. She took my hand and looked up into my face long and searchingly. What sought she there, if anything?
“Farewell, my friend,” she said in a clear voice and with infinite tenderness.
“Annette,—”
But she stopped my words by throwing her arms around my neck, and before I could realize anything she had fled my presence, going with Reiferth to another part of the house. As soon as I could order my understanding I followed, but the door by which they had left was locked. No longer could I stand; an unaccountable weakness seized me, and I sank into the chair. There I sat an indefinite time in a stupor, and was thus sitting when Reiferth returned.
“Well?” I gasped.
“It is all over,” he said kindly. Then he quickly brought me some brandy, which he made me drink.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Upstairs.”
“May I see her?”
“Why—no. I—I—don’t think you ought.”
“But I wish to.”
After some further demur he yielded. He supported me up the stairs and into a room. On a lounge lay Annette. At the door my heart had bounded with gladness, for she appeared to be only sleeping; but when I had come nearer—I cannot write of all these terrible things even at this great distance of time. I had come to bid my poor Annette farewell now, for I could not, I could not in life.
“Please leave me, Reiferth,” I begged.
When he was gone I took the slight body in my arms and pressed it close, very close to my heart. I covered the white, dead face with kisses. I kissed her hair, and her sightless eyes, once so beautiful, and caressed the poor sunken cheeks.
“Ah, Annette,” I cried, “my own little Annette, my Annette, I can tell you now what I have learned this day—that I love you; that I love you with all my heart and soul, and have loved you thus since the day when you sought and found me in the great crowd at the convent. How blind and foolish I was, Annette! And now you are gone, and my heart is broken.”
Reiferth came and took the poor dead body out of my arms and kindly led me away. My poor Annette!
* * * *
More than a year had passed, and I was standing listlessly on a street corner in Philadelphia. I could not l
ive in San Francisco, for everything there was eloquent with the memory of Annette. Darkness was approaching rapidly. I still stood, with that same dull pain which came upon me when Annette started down stairs with me to the carriage. The night was coming on cool wings, but its presence was soft and gentle. There was a shy touch on my elbow, and when I looked around I saw a beggar. She was small and slight, and was dressed in faded black. A black straw hat, with poor, cheap, faded lace, shaded her face from the street-lamp.