Ah God, that it should have come to this. Little Schnapsie could not
be happy till he was dead. Well, why should he keep her waiting? What
mattered the few odd years or months? He was already dead. There was
his funeral going down the street.
To speak to Schnapsie he had never intended, even while he was
promising it. Those years of silent life together had made real
conversation impossible. The bridge on which his soul passed over to
hers was a bridge over which hung a sacred silence. Under the weight
of words, especially of angry parental words, it might break down
forever. And that would be worse than death.
No; little Schnapsie had her own life, and he somehow knew he had not
the right to question it, even though it seemed on the verge of deadly
sin. He could not have expressed it in logical speech, was not even
clearly conscious of it; but his tender relation with her had educated
him to a sense of her moral rightness, which now survived and
subsisted with his conviction that she was hopelessly astray. No, he
had not the right to interfere with her life, with her prospect of
happiness in her own way. He must give up living. Little Schnapsie
must be nearly thirty; the best of her youth was gone. She should be
happy with this strange man.
But if he killed himself, that would bring disgrace on the family--and
little Schnapsie. Perhaps, too, Alfred would not marry her. Was there
no way of slipping quietly out of existence? But then suicide was
another deadly sin. If only that had really been his funeral
procession!
"O God, God of Israel, tell me what to do!"