A NEW VOICE.
THE ladies ascended, led by the maid with the candle, and closely
followed by their own servant, and our friend Tom Sedley brought up
the 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 his
luggage beside him. The maid set the candle down upon a table, and
opened one of these tall doors, through which he saw an angle of the
apartment, a fire burning in the grate, and a pleasant splendour of
candlelight; he saw that the floor was carpeted, and the windows
curtained, and though there was disclosed but a corner of a large
room, there were visible such pieces of furniture as indicated general
comfort.
In a large arm-chair, at the further side of the fire-place, sat the
lady who had thrilled him with a sudden remembrance. She had
withdrawn the shawl that hung in hood-like fashion over her head, and
there was no longer a doubt. The Beatrice Cenci was there--his
Guido--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 her
tenderly, and caressingly smoothed her rich chestnut hair over her
temples, and talked gently in her ear, and raised her hand in both
hers, and kissed it, and drawing a chair close to hers, she sat by
her, murmuring in her ear with a countenance of such kindness and
compassion, that Tom Sedley loved her for it.
Looking up, Miss Sheckleton observed the door open, and Tom fancied
perceived him in the perspective through it, for she rose suddenly,
shut it, and he saw no more. Tom had not discovered in the glance of
the old lady any sign of recognition, and for the sake of appearances
he had buttoned his gray wrapper close across his throat and breast so
as to conceal the evidences of his ball costume; his shining boots,
however, were painfully conspicuous, but for that incongruity there
was no help.
And now the servant who had let them in told Tom to bring the box and
bag 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 the
floor, a few kitchen utensils ranged near the fire-place, a deal
table, and some common kitchen chairs. Dismal enough would the room
have looked, notwithstanding its wainscoting, had it not been for the
glow diffused by the fire.
By this fire, on a kitchen chair, and upon his own opera hat, which he
wished specially to suppress, sat Tom Sedley, resolved to see his
adventure one hour or so into futurity, before abandoning it, and
getting home to his bed, and in the meantime doing his best to act a
servant, as he fancied such a functionary would appear in his moments
of ease unbending in the kitchen or the servants' hall. The maid who
had received the visitors in the hall, Anne Evans by name, square,
black-haired, slightly pitted with smallpox, and grave, came and sat
down at the other side of the fire, and eyed Tom Sedley in silence.
Now and then Tom felt uncomfortably about his practical joke, which
was degenerating into a deception. But an hour or so longer could not
matter much; and might he not make himself really useful if the
services of a messenger were required?
Anne Evans was considering him in silence, and he turned a little
more toward the fire, and poked it, as he fancied a groom would poke a
fire 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 good
faith--
"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 the
fire 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 Anne
Evans.
"They'll not part with you in a month, Miss Evans. No; they has some
taste and feelin' among them. I wouldn't wonder if you was here for
ever!" said Tom, with enthusiasm; "and what's this place, miss--this
house I mean--whose house is it?"
"Can't say, only I hear it's bought for a brewery, to be took down
next 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 it
down 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, the
hatter. Them's for gents--they air--and not for servants."
"The gov'nor gives me his old uns," said Tom, producing the best fib
he 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 short
nap 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 the
same," said Tom.
"And a ring on your finger?"
"A ring on my finger--yes. I wear it two days in the week. My
grand-uncle's ring, who was a gentleman, being skipper of a coal
brig."
"What's the lady's name?"
"Can't tell, Miss Evans; dussn't."
"Fuss about nothin'!" said she, and closed her eyes again, and opened
them 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 eyes
askance 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 that
sitting-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 at
the further door of the room with her hands clasped, and her eyes
raised in prayer, and her pale cheeks wet with tears.
Hearing the noise, she gently closed the door, and hastily drying her
eyes, whispered, "Set them down _there_," pointing to a sofa, on which
Tom 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 in
her 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?" she
whispered wildly, with her imploring gaze in the nurse's eyes.
"Oh, no, please God, ma'am, it will all be right. You must not fuss
yourself, ma'am. You must not let her see you like this, on no
account."
"Shall I send for him now?"
"No, ma'am; he'd only be in the way. _I_'ll tell you when; and his
man'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 no
sound of steps. That solemn bird floated very noiselessly round sick
beds, and you only heard, as it were, the hovering of her wings.
And then, in a minute more, in glided Miss Sheckleton, having dried
her eyes very carefully.
And now came a great knocking at the hall door, echoing dully through
the house. It was Doctor Grimshaw, who had just got his coat off, and
was winding his watch, when he was called from his own bed-side by
this summons, and so was here after a long day's work, to make a new
start, and await the dawn in this chamber of pain.
In he came, and Miss Sheckleton felt that light and hope entered the
room with him. Florid, portly, genial, with a light, hopeful step, and
a good, decided, cheery manner, he inspired confidence, and seemed to
take command, not only of the case, but of the ailment itself.
Miss Sheckleton knew this good doctor, and gladly shook his hand; and
he recognised her with a hesitating look that seemed to ask a
question, but was not meant to do so, and he spoke cheerfully to the
patient, and gave his directions to the nurse, and in about half an
hour more told good Anne Sheckleton that she had better leave the
patient.
So, with the docility which an able physician inspires, good Anne
Sheckleton obeyed, and in the next room--sometimes praying, sometimes
standing and listening, sometimes wandering from point to point, in
the merest restlessness--she waited and watched for more than an hour,
which seemed to her longer than a whole night, and at last tapped very
gently 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 side
of Mrs. Graver's straight nose, and one of her wrinkled eyes, and her
grim mouth.
"How is she?" whispered Miss Sheckleton, feeling as if she was herself
about to die.
"Pretty well, ma'am," answered the nurse, but with an awful look of
insincerity, under which the old lady's heart sank down and down, as
if 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 shut
the door in her face.
"Wait, _wait_," whispered the voice of kind old Doctor Grimshaw, and
he came into the next room to Miss Sheckleton, closing the door after
him.
"Oh, doctor!" she gasped.
"Well, Miss Sheckleton, I hope she'll do very well; I've just given
her something--a slight stimulant--and I've every confidence
everything will be well. Don't make yourself uneasy; it is not going
on badly."
"Oh, Doctor Grimshaw, shall I send for him? He'd never forgive me; and
I promised her, darling Margaret, to send."
"_Don't_ send--on _no account_ yet. Don't bring him here--he's better
away. 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 goes
the 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 next
room floor, so great was the silence; and she kneeled down and prayed
as helpless people pray in awful peril; and more time passed, and
more, slowly, very slowly. Oh, would the dawn ever come, and the
daylight again?
Voices and moans she heard from the room. Again she prayed on her
knees to the throne of mercy, in the agony of her suspense, and now
over 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 new
tiny 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 of
tears--as she looked up, thanking God with her smiles--as comes only
in such moments.
Margaret's clear voice faintly said something; Anne could not hear
what.
"A boy," answered the cheery voice of Doctor Grimshaw.
"Oh! he'll be so glad!" answered the faint clear voice in a kind of
rapture.
"Of course he will," replied the same cheery voice. And another
question 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 at
the door for the moment of admission, and hearing the sweet happy
tones of Margaret's voice sounding in her ears like the voice of one
who 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" of
the curse is remembered no more, "for joy that a man is born into the
world."