Euthanasy
by
“YOU remember Anna May, who sewed for you about a year ago?” said one fashionably-dressed lady to another.
“That pale, quiet girl, who made up dresses for the children?”
“The one I sent you.”
“Oh yes; very well. I had forgotten her name. What has become of her? If I remember rightly, I engaged her for a week or two in the fall; but she did not keep her engagement.”
“Poor thing!” said the first lady, whose name was Mrs. Bell, “she’ll keep no more engagements of that kind.”
“Why so? Is she dead?” The tone in which these brief questions were asked, evinced no lively interest in the fate of the poor sewing-girl.
“Not dead; but very near the end of life’s weary pilgrimage.”
“Ah, well! we must all die, I suppose–though it’s no pleasant thing to think about. But I am glad you called in this morning”–the lady’s voice rose into a more cheerful tone–“I was just about putting on my things to go down to Mrs. Bobinet’s opening. You intend going, of course. I shall be so delighted to have you along, for I want to consult your taste about a bonnet.”
“I came out for a different purpose altogether, Mrs. Ellis,” said Mrs. Bell, “and have called to ask you to go with me.”
“Where?”
“To see Anna May.”
“What!–that poor seamstress of whom you just spoke?” There was a look of unfeigned surprise in the lady’s countenance.
“Yes; the poor seamstress, Anna May. Her days in this world are nearly numbered. I was to see her yesterday, and found her very low. She cannot long remain on this side the river of death. I am now on my way to her mother’s house. Will you not go with me?”
“No, no,” replied Mrs. Ellis, quickly, while a shadow fell over her face; “why should I go? I never took any particular interest in the girl. And as for dying, every thing in relation thereto is unpleasant to me. I can’t bear to think of death: it makes me shudder all over.”
“You have never looked in the face of death,” said Mrs. Lee.
“And never wish to,” replied Mrs. Ellis, feelingly. “Oh, if it wasn’t for this terrible consummation, what a joyful thing life might be!”
“Anna May has looked death in the face; but does not find his aspect so appalling. She calls him a beautiful angel, who is about to take her by the hand, and lead her up gently and lovingly to her Father’s house.”
There came into the face of Mrs. Ellis a sudden look of wonder.
“Are you in earnest, Mrs. Bell?”
“Altogether in earnest.”
“The mind of the girl is unbalanced.”
“No, Mrs. Ellis; never was it more evenly poised. Come with me: it will do you good.”
“Don’t urge me, Mrs. Bell. If I go, it will make me sad for a week. Is the sick girl in want any comfort?–I will freely minister thereto. But I do not wish to look upon death.”
“In this aspect it is beautiful to look upon. Go with me, then. The experience will be something accompany you through life. The image of frightful monster is in your mind; you may now have it displaced by the form of an angel.”
“How strangely you talk, Mrs. Bell! How can death be an angel? Is any thing more terrible than death?”
“The phantom called death, which a diseased imagination conjures up, may be terrible to look upon; but death itself is a kind messenger, whose it is to summon us from this world of shadows and changes, to a world of eternal light and unfading beauty. But come, Mrs. Ellis; I must urge you to go with me. Do not fear a shock to your feelings, for none will be experienced.”
So earnest were Mrs. Bell’s persuasions, that her friend at last consented to go with her. At no great distance from the elegant residence of Mrs. Ellis, in an obscure neighbourhood, was a small house, humble in exterior, and modestly, yet neatly attired within. At the door of this house the ladies paused, and were admitted by a woman somewhat advanced in years, on whose mild face sorrow and holy resignation were beautifully blended.