CHAPTER II.
A NEW VOICE.
THE ladies ascended, led by the maid with the candle, and closelyfollowed by their own servant, and our friend Tom Sedley brought upthe rear, tugging the box and the bag with him.
At the stair-head was a great gallery from which many doors opened.Tom Sedley halted close by the banister for orders, depositing hisluggage beside him. The maid set the candle down upon a table, andopened one of these tall doors, through which he saw an angle of theapartment, a fire burning in the grate, and a pleasant splendour ofcandlelight; he saw that the floor was carpeted, and the windowscurtained, and though there was disclosed but a corner of a largeroom, there were visible such pieces of furniture as indicated generalcomfort.
In a large arm-chair, at the further side of the fire-place, sat thelady who had thrilled him with a sudden remembrance. She hadwithdrawn the shawl that hung in hood-like fashion over her head, andthere was no longer a doubt. The Beatrice Cenci was there--hisGuido--very pale, dying he thought her, with her white hands clasped,and her beautiful eyes turned upward in an agony of prayer.
The old lady, Miss Sheckleton, came near, leaned over her, kissed hertenderly, and caressingly smoothed her rich chestnut hair over hertemples, and talked gently in her ear, and raised her hand in bothhers, and kissed it, and drawing a chair close to hers, she sat byher, murmuring in her ear with a countenance of such kindness andcompassion, that Tom Sedley loved her for it.
Looking up, Miss Sheckleton observed the door open, and Tom fanciedperceived him in the perspective through it, for she rose suddenly,shut it, and he saw no more. Tom had not discovered in the glance ofthe old lady any sign of recognition, and for the sake of appearanceshe had buttoned his gray wrapper close across his throat and breast soas to conceal the evidences of his ball costume; his shining boots,however, were painfully conspicuous, but for that incongruity therewas no help.
And now the servant who had let them in told Tom to bring the box andbag into the servants' room, to which she led him across the gallery.
There was a large fire, which was pleasant, a piece of matting on thefloor, a few kitchen utensils ranged near the fire-place, a dealtable, and some common kitchen chairs. Dismal enough would the roomhave looked, notwithstanding its wainscoting, had it not been for theglow diffused by the fire.
By this fire, on a kitchen chair, and upon his own opera hat, which hewished specially to suppress, sat Tom Sedley, resolved to see hisadventure one hour or so into futurity, before abandoning it, andgetting home to his bed, and in the meantime doing his best to act aservant, as he fancied such a functionary would appear in his momentsof ease unbending in the kitchen or the servants' hall. The maid whohad received the visitors in the hall, Anne Evans by name, square,black-haired, slightly pitted with smallpox, and grave, came and satdown at the other side of the fire, and eyed Tom Sedley in silence.
Now and then Tom felt uncomfortably about his practical joke, whichwas degenerating into a deception. But an hour or so longer could notmatter much; and might he not make himself really useful if theservices of a messenger were required?
Anne Evans was considering him in silence, and he turned a littlemore toward the fire, and poked it, as he fancied a groom would poke afire for his private comfort.
"Are you servant to the ladies?" at last she asked.
Tom smiled at the generality of the question, but interpreting in goodfaith--
"No," said he, "I came with the carriage."
"Servant to the gentleman?" she asked.
"What gentleman?"
"You know well."
Tom had not an idea, but could not well say so. He therefore poked thefire again, and said, "Go on, miss; I'm listening."
She did not go on, however, for some time, and then it was to say--
"My name is Anne Evans. What may your name be?"
"Can't tell that. I left my name at home," said Tom, mysteriously.
"Won't tell?"
"Can't."
"I'm only by the month. Come in just a week to-morrow," observed AnneEvans.
"They'll not part with you in a month, Miss Evans. No; they has sometaste and feelin' among them. I wouldn't wonder if you was here forever!" said Tom, with enthusiasm; "and what's this place, miss--thishouse I mean--whose house is it?"
"Can't say, only I hear it's bought for a brewery, to be took downnext year."
"Oh, criky!" said Tom; "that's a pity."
There was a short pause.
"I saw you 'ide your 'at," said Anne Evans.
"Not 'ide it," said Tom; "only sits on it--always sits on my 'at."
Tom produced it, let it bounce up like a jack-in-a-box, and shut itdown again.
Miss Evans was neither amused nor surprised.
"Them's hopera 'ats--first quality--they used to come in boxes on 'em,as long as from here to you, when I was at Mr. Potterton's, thehatter. Them's for gents--they air--and not for servants."
"The gov'nor gives me his old uns," said Tom, producing the best fibhe could find.
"And them French boots," she added, meditatively.
"Perquisite likewise," said Tom.
Miss Anne Evans closed her eyes, and seemed disposed to take a shortnap in her chair. But on a sudden she opened them to say--
"I think you're the gentleman himself."
"The old gentleman?" said Tom.
"No. The young un."
"I'm jest what I tell you, not objectin' to the compliment all thesame," said Tom.
"And a ring on your finger?"
"A ring on my finger--yes. I wear it two days in the week. Mygrand-uncle's ring, who was a gentleman, being skipper of a coalbrig."
"What's the lady's name?"
"Can't tell, Miss Evans; dussn't."
"Fuss about nothin'!" said she, and closed her eyes again, and openedthem in a minute more, to add, "but I think you're him, and that's_my_ belief."
"No, I ain't miss, as you'll see, by-and-by."
"Tisn't nothin' to me, only people _is_ so close."
The door opened, and a tall woman in black, with a black net cap on,came quietly but quickly into the room.
"You're the man?" said she, with an air of authority, fixing her eyesaskance on Tom.
"Yes'm, please."
"Well, you don't go on no account, for you'll be wanted just now."
"No, ma'am."
"Where's the box and bag you're in charge of?"
"Out here," said Tom.
"Hish, man, quiet; don't you know there's sickness? Walk easy, _can't_you? _please_, consider."
Tom followed her almost on tip-toe to the spot where the parcels lay.
"Gently now; into this room, please," and she led the way into thatsitting-room into which Tom Sedley had looked some little time since,from the stair-head.
The beautiful young lady was gone, but Miss Sheckleton was standing atthe further door of the room with her hands clasped, and her eyesraised in prayer, and her pale cheeks wet with tears.
Hearing the noise, she gently closed the door, and hastily drying hereyes, whispered, "Set them down _there_," pointing to a sofa, on whichTom placed them accordingly. "Thanks--that will do. You may go."
When Sedley had closed the door--
"Oh, Mrs. Graver," whispered Anne Sheckleton, clasping her wrists inher trembling fingers, "is she _very_ ill?"
"Well, ma'am, she _is_ ill."
"But, oh, my God, you don't think we are going to lose her?" shewhispered wildly, with her imploring gaze in the nurse's eyes.
"Oh, no, please God, ma'am, it will all be right. You must not fussyourself, ma'am. You must not let her see you like this, on noaccount."
"Shall I send for him now?"
"No, ma'am; he'd only be in the way. _I_'ll tell you when; and hisman's here, ready to go, any minute. I must go back to her now,ma'am. Hish!"
And Mrs. Graver disappeared with a little rustle of her dress, and nosound of steps. That solemn bird floated very noiselessly round sickbeds, and you only heard,
as it were, the hovering of her wings.
And then, in a minute more, in glided Miss Sheckleton, having driedher eyes very carefully.
And now came a great knocking at the hall door, echoing dully throughthe house. It was Doctor Grimshaw, who had just got his coat off, andwas winding his watch, when he was called from his own bed-side bythis summons, and so was here after a long day's work, to make a newstart, and await the dawn in this chamber of pain.
In he came, and Miss Sheckleton felt that light and hope entered theroom with him. Florid, portly, genial, with a light, hopeful step, anda good, decided, cheery manner, he inspired confidence, and seemed totake command, not only of the case, but of the ailment itself.
Miss Sheckleton knew this good doctor, and gladly shook his hand; andhe recognised her with a hesitating look that seemed to ask aquestion, but was not meant to do so, and he spoke cheerfully to thepatient, and gave his directions to the nurse, and in about half anhour more told good Anne Sheckleton that she had better leave thepatient.
So, with the docility which an able physician inspires, good AnneSheckleton obeyed, and in the next room--sometimes praying, sometimesstanding and listening, sometimes wandering from point to point, inthe merest restlessness--she waited and watched for more than an hour,which seemed to her longer than a whole night, and at last tapped verygently at the door, a lull having come for a time in the sick chamber,and unable longer to endure her suspense.
A little bit of the door was opened, and Anne Sheckleton saw the sideof Mrs. Graver's straight nose, and one of her wrinkled eyes, and hergrim mouth.
"How is she?" whispered Miss Sheckleton, feeling as if she was herselfabout to die.
"Pretty well, ma'am," answered the nurse, but with an awful look ofinsincerity, under which the old lady's heart sank down and down, asif it had foundered.
"One word to Dr. Grimshaw," she whispered, with white lips.
"You _can't_, ma'am," murmured the nurse, sternly, and about to shutthe door in her face.
"Wait, _wait_," whispered the voice of kind old Doctor Grimshaw, andhe came into the next room to Miss Sheckleton, closing the door afterhim.
"Oh, doctor!" she gasped.
"Well, Miss Sheckleton, I hope she'll do very well; I've just givenher something--a slight stimulant--and I've every confidenceeverything will be well. Don't make yourself uneasy; it is not goingon badly."
"Oh, Doctor Grimshaw, shall I send for him? He'd never forgive me; andI promised her, darling Margaret, to send."
"_Don't_ send--on _no account_ yet. Don't bring him here--he's betteraway. I'll tell you when to send."
The doctor opened the door.
"Still quiet?"
"Yes, sir," whispered Mrs. Graver.
Again he closed the door.
"Nice creature she seems. A relation of yours?" asked the Doctor.
"My cousin."
"When was she married?"
"About a year ago."
"Never any tendency to consumption?"
"Never."
"Nothing to make her low or weak? Is she hysterical?"
"No, hardly that, but nervous and excitable."
"I know; very good. I think she'll do very nicely. If anything goesthe least wrong I'll let you know. Now stay quiet in there."
And he shut the door, and she heard his step move softly over the nextroom floor, so great was the silence; and she kneeled down and prayedas helpless people pray in awful peril; and more time passed, andmore, slowly, very slowly. Oh, would the dawn ever come, and thedaylight again?
Voices and moans she heard from the room. Again she prayed on herknees to the throne of mercy, in the agony of her suspense, and nowover the strange roofs spread the first faint gray of the coming dawn;and there came a silence in the room, and on a sudden was heard a newtiny voice crying.
"The little child!" cried old Anne Sheckleton, springing to her feet,with clasped hands, in the anguish of delight, and such a gush oftears--as she looked up, thanking God with her smiles--as comes onlyin such moments.
Margaret's clear voice faintly said something; Anne could not hearwhat.
"A boy," answered the cheery voice of Doctor Grimshaw.
"Oh! he'll be so glad!" answered the faint clear voice in a kind ofrapture.
"Of course he will," replied the same cheery voice. And anotherquestion came, too low for old Anne Sheckleton's ears.
"A _beautiful_ boy! as fine a fellow as you could desire to look at.Bring him here, nurse."
"Oh! the darling!" said the same faint voice. "I'm so _happy_."
"Thank God! thank God! thank God!" sobbed delighted Anne Sheckleton,her cheeks still streaming in showers of tears as she stood waiting atthe door for the moment of admission, and hearing the sweet happytones of Margaret's voice sounding in her ears like the voice of onewho had just now died, heard faintly through the door of heaven.
For thus it has been, and thus to the end, it will be--the "sorrow" ofthe curse is remembered no more, "for joy that a man is born into theworld."
The Tenants of Malory, Volume 3 Page 2
