Chapter IX: 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.