THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.
“Whence is that knocking?
How is’t with me since every noise appalls me?”
The sleep of Eudora was deep, long and refreshing. It was late in the
morning when she was awakened by the sound of an unusual commotion in
the house.
She started up in affright and listened, for in her present distressing
position every new event seemed charged with deadly danger to herself.
As, with breathless lungs and beating heart she listened, she heard the
sound of several heavy footsteps coming slowly up the stairs, and
frequently pausing, as if to rest a burden. She heard them stop on the
first landing outside her door, and then proceed heavily up the second
flight of stairs. Then she heard them enter the room over her head, and
deposit their burden so heavily that its slow fall shook the ceiling.
This was followed by the shriek of a girl, that rang piercing through
the house, and then dead silence.
Unable longer to endure the agony of suspense, Eudora rang her bell
violently.
The summons was immediately answered by the landlady, who hastily
entered the room.
Finding Eudora pale, faint and trembling, in a state of deadly terror,
she came to her side instantly, saying:
“There, I knew they would frighten you in your nervous state, though I
cautioned them to be quiet, too.”
“What is it?” gasped Eudora.
“La, dear, the men a-bringing home the captain in a dead stupor from the
public, where he has been a-drinkin’ all night.”
“The captain?” echoed Eudora, still in a state of bewilderment.
“Yes, dear, Captain Wilder, as I told you about him and daughter last
night. They’ve just brought him home stupid with drink, and the poor
girl thought he was dead, and screamed out, that was all; but I told her
as he’d come to after a bit, and made ’em lay him on the bed, so don’t
you alarm yourself about it, my dear.”
Eudora sank back upon her pillow, half ashamed of the relief she felt in
knowing that the present shock of sorrow had come to another instead of
to herself.
Mrs. Corder brought her hot water, and then Eudora arose and dressed,
and passed into her sitting-room, where a comfortable breakfast was soon
prepared.
Eudora was not so completely absorbed in her own great sorrow as not to
feel some sympathy with the poor girl up-stairs. And she requested Mrs.
Corder to supply Miss Wilder with anything that might be necessary, and
charge it to herself, Eudora.
As the landlady had said, the captain came out of his stupor, but it was
only to fall into frightful convulsions of _mania-á-potu_.
Many times during the day the kind-hearted landlady was obliged to run
up-stairs to render assistance to his unfortunate daughter, whose youth,
sex, and inexperience alike rendered her unfit and incompetent to manage
a man in the frenzy of that terrible malady.
All the afternoon and evening, Eudora was appalled by the dreadful
groans, shrieks, and struggles of the demoniac, as he might truly be
called, who was possessed by the demon of intoxication.
Late at night those violent demonstrations of frenzy ceased. And Eudora
hoped, for the sake of his hapless daughter, that his madness was over
for the present.
_It was over for ever._
Eudora was just preparing to go to rest, when her door was abruptly
thrown open, and the landlady, in great excitement, entered the room,
saying:
“Oh, Miss Miller, my dear, for the love of Heaven, go up-stairs and stay
with that poor girl, while I run for the doctor. I do believe the
captain is dying!”
Eudora, deeply shocked at what she heard, and sensible withal that she
could do but little good in such a case, could not, however, disregard
such an appeal. She arose at once to comply.
“It is the back room up-stairs, immediately over your own, my dear;
you’ll be sure to find it,” said Mrs. Corder, hurrying away.
Eudora immediately went up-stairs and rapped at the door of the
apartment to which she had been directed. But receiving no answer, she
gently pushed the door open and entered the room.
It was a poorly-furnished chamber, lighted by a single tallow candle,
that stood upon a stand on the left side of an uncurtained bedstead, and
cast its sickly beams upon the haggard face of the dying man, whose form
lay extended upon the mattress, and covered with a white counterpane.
On the right side of the bed knelt his daughter, with her hands clasping
his hands, and her eyes gazing fondly and anxiously into the face of her
father. So completely absorbed was she in her attention to him, that the
entrance of the visitor remained unnoticed.
“Father,” she said, continuing to gaze imploringly into his insensible
countenance, “father, don’t you know me—won’t you speak to me? Father,
it is your own Nella!”
She waited, without removing her eyes from those of the dying man, but
receiving no answering word nor even a conscious look in reply to her
impassioned appeal, she dropped her face upon the counterpane, and
sobbed aloud.
At this moment Eudora glided to her side, laid her hand softly upon her
shoulder, and spoke gently to her, saying:
“Do not weep so bitterly, Miss Wilder. There may be hope yet.”
The child sprang lightly to her feet, threw back the golden brown
tresses that half veiled her face, and fixed her long-lashed, soft-gray
eyes upon the beautiful vision that had entered the room, like an angel,
to breathe of hope.
“I am your fellow-lodger, Miss Wilder, and having some experience in
illness, I have come to render you what assistance I may,” pursued
Eudora.
“Oh, thank you! thank you a thousand times for coming! But do you think
you can do anything for him! Oh, see! he takes no notice even of a
stranger coming into the room! he does not even know _me_!” exclaimed
Annella, taking her visitor by the hand, and drawing her closely to the
bedside, while she pointed to the suffering man, over whose face the
gray shadows of death were already creeping.
Eudora saw that this case was not only beyond her skill, but beyond that
of the most skilful physician. Yet she could not find it in her heart to
communicate this grievous truth to the child whose soft, dark eyes were
fixed so beseechingly upon her face.
“Have you any stimulant in the house—any hartshorn, or even
eau-de-cologne?”
It was almost mockery to ask for any article of comfort in a place where
the common necessaries of life seemed wanting. And so Eudora felt it to
be when poor Annella shook her head, and then burst into tears.
“Do not weep, dear; the doctor will be here in a moment, and he will
send the proper remedies immediately,” said Eudora, who had taken up and
was briskly rubbing the icy hand of the sufferer.
Annella followed her example with the other hand, which she chafed with
the hot tears that fell fast from her eyes.
The moment after footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and the landlady
and the doctor entered.
The latter immediately stepped to the side of the bed, from which Eudora
and Annella retired to give him place.
The doctor took up the hand that Eudora had relinquished, and held it
for about a minute with his finger on the pulse. Then he softly laid it
down again, and stood with his eyes fixed in grave contemplation upon
the stiffening face before him. The landlady drew near in awe.
“Remove his unhappy daughter from the room. The man has ceased to
suffer,” said the doctor, in a low tone, yet not so low but that its
import struck the heart of Annella, who rushed to the bedside, gazed
wildly upon the fixed features of her father, and then seizing the
doctor’s hand, exclaimed:
“Dead? Do you mean dead? Oh, no, sir! no, sir! say he is not dead.”
“Poor child! my saying that will not bring him to life. He has ceased to
suffer! and we must all bow to the will of Heaven!”
With a low, inarticulate, sobbing moan, like the last utterance of a
breaking heart, the poor girl sank upon the bed beside her father’s
body, and buried her face on his cold bosom.
There was no violent demonstration of sorrow. After that first
broken-hearted sob and moan she lay as patient, as silent, and as
motionless as the dead beside her.
They let her remain for a little time, during which they stood in
reverent silence around the bed of death; and then the doctor said:
“She must be removed. She will make no resistance; she is too much
prostrated to do so.”
And Mrs. Corder went and tenderly raised the light form in her own
strong, motherly arms, murmuring:
“La! she has no more solidness in her nor a poor little starved sparrow
in the hard frost.”
“Bring her into my room, and lay her upon my bed, dear Mrs. Corder, and
then, while you attend to the dead, I will do all I can for the living,”
said Eudora, gravely leading the way from the chamber of death.
Mrs. Corder followed with her light burden, carrying it, as she had been
desired, to Eudora’s room, deposited it carefully upon her bed, and then
withdrew to render the necessary services elsewhere.
Eudora, drawn completely out of herself, forgot for the moment her own
sorrows in ministering to those of the poor, bereaved destitute Annella.
Much acquaintance with grief had taught Eudora the rarest of all
arts—that of wisely comforting the afflicted. She knew that sorrow is
less hurtful when it is permitted to express itself in complaints. She
tempted Annella to complain, and the child said:
“Oh, Miss Miller, it is so—_so_ hard! I hadn’t a friend in the world but
him—and he hadn’t one on earth but me! We were all in all to each other!
and so we always have been, ever since I can remember! When the
court-martial took his commission away from him, he gathered me to his
heart, and said—‘Thank God they can never take _you_ from me, my Nella!’
And now he is taken from me!”
Here a burst of tears interrupted her speech. When it was over she
resumed her complaint:
“They speak ill of him because he drank, Miss Miller; but he could not
help it. How hard he tried to break himself of that fatal habit no one
knows so well as myself—except his Maker! but he never could! Drinking
was as much a disease with him as coughing is with the consumptive, or
shaking is with the paralytic. Oh, Miss Miller, you look so good! _you_
don’t think hard of my poor dead father do you?”
“No, dear; I have always believed inebriation—habitual inebriation—to be
a mere disease,” said Eudora, sympathetically.
“Oh, it is! it is just as much a disease as dyspepsia or consumption is!
This disease that he could not conquer—the dishonor that he felt to the
inmost core of his heart—the despair that he should ever recover all
that he had lost—these broke his heart! I know it; and I will defend his
memory if no one else does!”
Here another burst of weeping arrested her farther discourse. When this
second gust of sorrow was past, she continued her touching apology for
the dead:
“If man could see as God sees—what it was that first drove him to
drink—I mean what it was that first brought on this disease, they would
pity instead of condemning him! It was my mother’s early death! He loved
her so much, Miss Miller. Since she died he has never looked upon
another woman with affection. And he loved me so much for her sake! And
now he is gone, and I shall never see him more—never! never! never!”
Here, for the third time, a wild gush of tears and sobs choked her
voice; but as it gradually subsided to quiet weeping, she grew still,
and dropped into slumber.
She was but a child in her first sorrow, and like a child she had cried
herself to sleep.
Eudora then quietly undressed, and lay down by her side, where she soon
shared the same blessing of oblivion and repose.
The next day was one of great bustle in the house.
The parish officers, summoned by the troubled landlady, were early on
the premises to take cognizance of the deceased and his necessities.
It was to be a parish funeral; there was absolutely no help for it. Mrs.
Corder, after having paid her half year’s rent, had not five shillings
left in the world; and as for credit—who in this world would credit a
poor widow with thirteen children, even for a grave in a Christian
churchyard!
Eudora was equally destitute of money and credit. Mr. Montrose, in
remembering everything else, had forgotten to supply her with funds. And
thus the heiress of Allworth Abbey had not so much as a crown left in
her purse. A fugitive and a stranger, she dared not ask for credit, even
if there had been a chance of her obtaining it.
Thus it happened that the father of Annella was obliged to be buried at
the expense of the parish.
In such burials there is no reverent delay, no long lying out; no
funeral feast; no train of mourners; all is plain, cheap, and
expeditious. The coffin was sent in the same morning, and the interment
was ordered for the afternoon.
Annella heard of this arrangement with a stony resignation.
“He will not feel it,” she said; “and as for me it does not matter.”
When the hasty parish funeral was over, there was a talk among the
parish officers of sending the young girl for the present to the union,
until some other disposition could be made of her, and this was opposed
by Mrs. Corder with all her heart and soul.
“Sure, sirs,” she said, “I would no more consent to her going to the
union, nor I would one o’ my own. Sirs, I’ve thirteen a’ready, and I
don’t mind making ’em fourteen; certain, one more or less can’t make no
noticeable difference in a family like mine, unless it should be one
less instead o’ one more, which the Lord in his mercy forbid!” added the
mother, fervently.
“Thirteen children! Do you tell me to my face that you have thirteen
children, woman? What do you mean by having thirteen children in an
over-populated parish like this? I should think a visitation of the
scarlet-fever would be a godsend to you,” said one of the officers,
staring in astonishment.
“Now, may the Lord forgive you for that speech, sir! And as for the
rest, sir, if ever I bring my children on the parish, it will be time
enough for you to reproach me for first bringing ’em into the world. And
more be token, instead of wanting to put a child on the parish, I am
offering for to take one offen it,” said the widow, in honest
indignation.
“And that’s true, too,” observed the other officer, “but then you have
enough to support now; you will never be able to bear the burdens of an
additional one.”
“Lord, sir, it will be but the putting of a ha’-penny more on every
measure of peas, or potatoes, and persuading the people that they are
better nor usual,” added Mrs. Corder, _sotto voce_.
“Humph, humph, well, we will leave the child with you to-night, and
think about it. Perhaps the parish may give you something for keeping
her, until she recovers herself, and is strong enough to be bound out.”
“Sirs, I thank you; but I would no more take parish help for her nor I
would for one of my own, as I told your worships before.”
“Well, well, my good woman, there will be time enough to think of that,”
said the senior officer, as himself and his companion took their leave.
This conversation had taken place in the little back parlor behind the
shop.
But there had been one unseen, silent, but attentive listener to this
discourse. And that listener was Annella, who, crouching in her grief in
a dark corner of the room, had been a witness to the whole interview.
And while Mrs. Corder was attending the parish officers to the
shop-door, Annella slipped through the side-door opening from the little
back parlor into the hall, and crept away to the privacy of her own
room, there to mature her plans for the future.
An hour afterwards Mrs. Corder carried her up a cup of tea and a round
of toast, and setting these refreshments down upon a little stand, she
dropped into the nearest chair to recover her breath, and said:
“Now, for the future, my dear, you will come down and take your meals
with me. I have adopted you, and so you are to be my daughter, unless
some of your kinsfolk should come forward and take you away from me;
which I hope they won’t, unless they can do much better for you than I
can.”
Annella spoke no word of thanks, but arose and knelt down by the side of
the good mother, and raised her fat hand to her pale lips, and kissed it
fervently.
“There, child, there; do get up and drink your tea, I aint a image to be
knelt down afore, nor likewise a sovring Queen to have my hand kissed.
But if you are fond of old women, and do want to be petted, why here,
then,” said the affectionate creature, raising the girl, and drawing her
slight form to her own motherly bosom.
“There, now drink your tea while it is hot, and then go right to bed,
and get a good night’s rest. And mind to-morrow morning come down and
take your breakfast with me at eight o’clock,” said the good woman,
releasing the orphan.
And then, as Mrs. Corder was much too busy to indulge in sentiment, she
arose and bade Annella good-night, and left her to repose.
“And now I’ll just look in and see how my other girl does. I might as
well own up to having fifteen children at once, for this beautiful
creature needs a mother’s care as much as any of the others,” said Mrs.
Corder to herself, as on her way down stairs she paused before Eudora’s
door and rapped.
Being requested to enter, she put her head in at the door, saying:
“I just looked in upon you to see if you required anything, and to say
that you needn’t trouble your tender heart any longer about Miss Nella.
She’s having her tea, and is going to bed presently. She’ll do very well
for the present. I have adopted her.”
“You should really be at the head of an orphan asylum, Mrs. Corder,”
said Eudora, looking up from her book.
“I think I am at the head of an orphan asylum with fifteen orphans to
look after,” said Mrs. Corder, smiling at her own notion.
Then ascertaining that Eudora required nothing more that evening, she
wished her good-night, and withdrew into the lower regions to attend to
her own more rightful orphans.
Early the next morning the worthy landlady was stirring. She opened her
little shop betimes, placing the red-haired heir of the house of Corder
behind the counter to serve the early customers, while she busied
herself in the kitchen behind the little back parlor, preparing
breakfast for her family.
Eight o’clock arrived, and the morning meal was ready; but Annella had
not made her appearance.
“She is oversleeping herself, poor child; so much the better, it will do
her a world of good; and I can just keep some coffee and muffins for her
against she does wake; so now, children, come, get your breakfasts.”
And so saying, as in that busy household there was no time to wait, the
good woman gathered her numerous progeny around the long kitchen table.
When their healthful appetites were well satisfied, the careful mother
bustled up, and leaving her eldest daughter, Sally, a good-humored,
red-haired lass of sixteen years of age, to clear away the table, she
hurried off, up-stairs, to wait upon her lodger.
And it was while Eudora was seated before a delicate morning repast of
black tea, buttered toast, and soft-boiled fresh eggs, that the latter
inquired:
“How is Annella this morning?”
“I have not seen her yet. She is oversleeping herself, poor child, after
all this fatigue and distress, and I hope she will feel the better of
it,” said the worthy woman.
“And yet it is ten o’clock. She may be ill, Mrs. Corder. And you know
there is no bell in her room.”
“That is true, Miss Miller; I will run up and see.”
And so saying, the landlady left the room and went up-stairs.
Eudora heard her footsteps overhead passing about from one room to the
other, apparently in great excitement.
Then there was silence for a little while.
And then the lady was heard rushing down the stairs.
She threw open the door of Eudora’s room and entered in a state of
extreme agitation, holding an open letter in her hand, and exclaiming:
“She is gone, Miss Miller!”
“Gone—_who_?” inquired the bewildered Eudora.
“Nella! Nella! Who else?”
“Nella! But _where_ is she gone! Sit down and take breath, Mrs. Corder.”
The landlady dropped panting into the nearest chair.
“Now, tell me quietly all about it, Mrs. Corder.”
“She’s gone! She’s off! that’s all about it.”
“‘Gone,’ ‘off,’ you said that before; but _why_ has she gone?”
“’Cause she’s crazy; ’cause she’s frightened o’ the parish officers,
blame ’em, and o’ the union, and o’ being bound out, or else o’ being a
burden to me!”
“But _where_, then, has she gone!”
“To her ruin, I’m afeard! To seek her fortin’, she says.”
“But in what direction?”
“Lord knows! _I_ don’t, if _she_ does herself. This comes all along o’
having no home and no mother, and being brought up in a barrack, with no
one but a tipsy father to look after her. Here, Miss Miller; here’s her
letter. I haven’t more than just looked over it. And to go off without
her breakfast, too, before any of us was up! But here’s her letter, Miss
Miller; it is intended for you as well as for me, for see it is
directed—‘_To my good friends_!’ Read it out loud, please, and then,
maybe, I may understand it better, for I never was a good hand at making
out writing.”
Eudora took the letter, and read:
DEAR, KIND FRIENDS:—When these lines shall meet your eyes, the poor
girl that you have befriended will be far away from London. But do not
think that she is ungrateful because she is forced to leave you;
forced to leave you for your own sakes as well as for her own. She
cannot consent to become a pauper, to be disposed of by the parish
officers in any manner which they may think proper. And she cannot
remain a burthen upon good Mrs. Corder, or dear Miss Miller. She longs
for freedom and independence, and pines for the country and the open
air. She has not a relation in the world upon whom she has any claim.
But that you may not be uneasy about her, know that she is gone to
seek her fortune in the north of England. There she has a possible
friend in the daughter of her mother’s nurse, the foster-sister of her
mother, Tabitha Tabs, who lives as ladies’-maid at a place called
Allworth Abbey, somewhere in the county of C——. For her mother’s sake,
this Tabitha may help her to some good place in the country, where she
will be willing to work very hard, so that she can only see the green
fields, breathe the fresh air, and feel herself a free girl. And so,
dear friends, pray feel no anxiety for her welfare. But believe, that
He who fed the young ravens will care for her, who will always
remember your kindness with the warmest gratitude while her name is
“ANNELLA.”
When Eudora, in reading this letter, met the name of Allworth Abbey, a
deadly terror came over her. She felt all the extreme danger that
threatened herself in the journey of this unsuspicious girl. She could
scarcely command herself sufficiently to read the letter to its close.
And when she had finished the perusal, the paper fluttered and dropped
from her hand, and she sank back half-fainting in her chair.
The landlady perceived her emotion, but ascribed it wholly to sympathy
with the misguided fugitive. She picked up the letter, and smoothing it
out, began to look at it again, saying:
“Did ever any human creature hear of such a mad act? For to go and leave
well-known friends to seek her fortin’ among total strangers; and
without any north star to steer by, as one may say, but a ladies’-maid
somewhere in the North of England. Stay. Where did she say the maid was
at service?”
“At a place called Allworth Abbey,” faltered Eudora, with as indifferent
an air as she could assume.
“Allworth Abbey? Allworth Abbey? Sure I have heard that name somewhere
lately, and heard no good of it neither,” said the landlady
meditatively.
Then with a sudden flash of memory lighting up her face, she exclaimed:
“Why, it’s the very place where that wicked young girl poisoned all her
relations! Lawk! to think that she should be going there! But she
couldn’t ha’ read the _Times_, or heard o’ what’s happened in that
family, or she never would be going there.”
“There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow and a
fore-ordained fate in the journey of a wild girl to Allworth Abbey,”
sighed Eudora.