The baby was born next morning, after a night which was terrible for all
the household in the Park. Mrs. John left hurriedly after she had called
the attendants to Mary, who, she said, did not seem well. She got the
brougham to drive her to the station, saying that she would not stay to
add to the trouble of the house at such a moment, but begging the butler
to send her a telegram as soon as there was any news to tell, “which
will not be long,” she said. I think she did feel a little guilty as she
drove away. It was, one might say, Letitia’s first crime. She had done
many things that were very doubtful, and she had not been very regardful
of her neighbor generally, nor loved him as herself. Yet she had never
addressed herself to a fellow-creature with an absolute and distinct
intention to do harm before. And she was not comfortable. She tried to
reassure herself that she had spoken nothing but the truth, and that
they deserved nothing better at her hands, but still she was not easy in
her mind. She could not get out of her eyes the sight of Mary huddled up
in her corner, with nothing but a gasping breath to show that she was
alive--nor could she help asking herself what might be happening as she
herself hurried through the softly-falling night, getting away as fast
as she could from the house in which that drama of life or death was
going on. She had heard the scream Agnes gave as she went in with her
candle. In the urgency of attending to Lady Frogmore no one noticed Mrs.
John running so hastily downstairs. Nobody, she said to herself, would
think of identifying her with it whatever happened. And nothing would
happen. Oh no, no. No such chance. They had constitutions of iron, all
those Hills. And why should it harm Mary or any one to hear what was the
simple truth?
It was a dreadful night at the Park. The old lord wandered up and down
like an unquiet spirit unable to rest. Rogers, who was more shocked than
words could say by an exhibition of feeling which went against all the
laws of health, endeavored in vain to get him to go to bed. “For you can
do no good, my lord--none of us can do any good. Things will take their
course, and the medical man is here. My lady would be most distressed of
all if she knew that you were losing your night’s sleep which is the
most important thing, more important even than food. I do entreat your
lordship to go to bed. I’ll sit up and bring the first news--the very
first, if you’ll go to bed, my lord.”
“It is easy speaking,” said Lord Frogmore--“you’re a good fellow,
Rogers. Go to bed yourself. It’s my turn to sit up to-night.”
“But it don’t affect me--and it will affect your lordship--and what will
my lady say to me when she knows?”
“Oh don’t speak to me,” cried the old lord with the water in his eyes.
“I’ll give you a sovereign for every word she says to you, when she’s
able to take any notice, Rogers, either of you or me.”
“That’ll be to-morrow, my lord,” said the man, “and I know her ladyship
will never put faith in me again. But at least you’ll take your beef
tea.”
Lord Frogmore pushed him away, and bade him take the beef-tea himself
and coddle himself up as he had done his master so long. As for himself,
he kept trotting up and downstairs all the night. It was far too late at
sixty-nine, after taking such care of himself, to begin this life of
emotion and anxiety; and the morning light, when it stole in through all
the closed shutters, flouting the candles, and poured down the great
staircase, making the lamp in the hall look so foolish, made sad game of
the old lord’s rosy face, generally so fresh and smooth. But, happily,
ease came with the morning, and the best of news: a boy--and all very
quiet, and every prospect that everything would go well. Lord Frogmore
was allowed to peep at the top of a small head done up in flannel, and
at the mother’s pale face on the pillow, and then he resigned himself to
Rogers to be put to bed. But he was now so overflowing with delight that
he chattered like an old woman to his faithful servant. “Rogers,” he
said, “you’ve heard it’s a boy?”
“Yes, my lord, and I wish you every happiness in him,” Rogers said.
“I am afraid my wife will be disappointed,” said Lord Frogmore, “she’s
so fond of my little nephew, little Duke. She would rather it had been
a girl for that. Poor little Duke! Now he’s quite out of it, the little
shaver.” And Lord Frogmore laughed. He was sorry for Duke, or at least
would have been had there been room in him for anything but joy. “Did I
ever tell you, Rogers, what that little fellow said the first time I
went to Greenpark, eh? He said, ‘When you’re dead papa will be Lord
Frogmore, and when papa’s dead, me.’ Poor little shaver! He was too
cocksure,” said Lord Frogmore again with a triumphant laugh.
“It’ll make a deal of difference to him, my lord.”
“Yes, it’ll make a deal of difference. But they couldn’t expect me to
consider them before myself,” said Lord Frogmore. “A man likes to have
an heir of his own, Rogers--a son of his own to come after him.”
“Yes, he do, my lord,” Rogers said.
“A man loves to have an heir of his own,” repeated the old lord with a
beaming face--“his own flesh and blood--his own son to sit in his place.
That’s what a man prefers before everything, Rogers.”
“He do, my lord,” Rogers once more replied.
“You put up with it when you can’t help it; but a son of your own to
come after you, Rogers!”
“Yes, my lord--if you’ll drink this while it is hot, and get into bed.”
“You’re a sad martinet, Rogers. I don’t believe you mind a bit, or care,
whether it was a girl or a boy. I’ll have no beef tea. I’ll have some
champagne to drink to the heir.”
“Oh, my lord, my lord! You’ll have one of your attacks: and then what
will her ladyship say to me?” said the much-troubled Rogers, to whom his
old master was generally so obedient.
It was enough to drive a man who had the responsibility, whom everybody
looked to, out of his mind. At last, however, the old lord was got to
bed, and after his exhausting night had a long and sound sleep.
But before Lord Frogmore awoke agitating rumors had already begun to run
through the house. Nobody quite knew what it was; but it began to be
rumored that her ladyship was not doing so well as was expected, that
she was in a bad way. Whether it was fever or what it was nobody would
tell. A consciousness of such a fact will breathe through a house or
even a country without either details or certainty. The doctor’s face,
as he came downstairs, his lingering after it was clear he was no longer
wanted, an exclamation, surprised from the lips of one of the ladies or
even a gravity in the aspect of the nurse, to whom a curious housemaid
had handed in something that was wanted, each supported and strengthened
the other. Not so well as might be expected. When Lord Frogmore awoke it
was afternoon, for he had slept long in the satisfaction of his soul and
the calming of his fears, and he saw a revelation in the face of Rogers
when questioned how my lady was. Rogers lied with his lips, or at least
he brought forth with a little difficulty the usual words; but Lord
Frogmore could not be deceived by his face. The old gentleman rose with
a sudden chill at his heart and dressed hurriedly and hastened to his
wife’s room, where he could see they were reluctant to admit him. Mary
was lying with a clouded countenance, not like herself, not asleep as
they said at first, but muttering to herself, and the faces of her
sister and the nurse who were watching by her were very anxious. “She
wants something. What is it she wants?” said the old lord, anxiously.
The experienced nurse shook her head with an ominous gravity, and begged
that the poor lady might not be disturbed. “They are like that,
sometimes,” she said, “till they get a good sleep.”
“But what is it? What is it she wants? Get her what she wants,” said
Lord Frogmore, going to the side of the bed. Mary saw him, for she moved
a little and raised her voice. “It is a girl--it is a girl--say it is a
girl. Say--say it is a girl!” She looked at him with a piteous appeal
that broke his heart. Ah no, she did not know him. She appealed to him
as a sane man, as one who could satisfy her. “It is a girl--you
know--you know it is a girl!” she cried.
The heart of the poor old lord swelled to bursting. This was all as new
to him as if he had been a boy-husband, disturbed, yet so joyful and
proud. “No, Mary,” he said; “no, my dear. It’s a beautiful boy. The
thing I desired most in the world was this heir.”
Mary gave a shriek that rang through all the house. She got up in her
bed, her face convulsed with horror and terror. “No, no,” she cried;
“no, no, no. The heir--not the heir--not the heir. Oh, take it away.
Didn’t you hear what she said: It will grow up an idiot and kill us.
Take it away--take it away.”
“Mary!” cried the old lord, taking her hand, “Mary! This is that
wretched woman’s doing that has frightened her. Mary, my love, it is
your own child; a beautiful child. Our son, the boy I wanted, Mary.”
Mary snatched her hand from his. She shrank away from him to the other
edge of the bed. “No, not a boy--no, no, no!--no heir!--there is an
heir,” she cried, clutching at the woman who stood on the other side, as
if escaping from a danger. “He doesn’t know--he doesn’t know,” she
cried, flinging herself upon the nurse. “It will grow up an idiot and
kill me. Do you hear? Do you hear? Say it’s not so--oh, say it’s not
so!”
“No, no, my poor dear lady, no, no! It’s as you wish, it’ll be all you
wish,” said the nurse holding the patient in her arms. And Mary clung to
the woman holding her fast, whispering in her ear. Lord Frogmore stood
with piteous eyes and saw his wife shrinking from him, talking to the
woman, who bent over her, with the dreadful whisper of insanity, which
meant nothing. Was this what it had come to--all the pride and triumph
and joy? The old lord stood with his limbs trembling under him, his old
heart sore with disappointment and cold with terror. His mild Mary! What
had changed her in a moment in the illusion of happiness to this
frenzied sufferer? When he saw that she kept hiding her head in the
nurse’s breast, clinging to her, he withdrew sorrowful and subdued to
where Agnes sat by the fire with the little bundle of flannel on her
lap. She was crying quietly under her breath, and looked up at him as he
came towards her with sympathetic trouble. “They say,” she whispered,
“that it’s often so just at first when they want sleep. Oh, don’t lose
heart!”
“It’s that accursed woman,” he said, under his breath.
“Oh I hope not--I hope it’s only--she will be better when she has slept.
Look at him, poor little darling,” said Agnes unfolding the shawls. Lord
Frogmore cast a troubled glance at the poor little heir who seemed about
to cost him so dear. He had no heart to look at the child. He crept out
of the room afterwards feeling all his years and his unfitness, a man
near seventy, for the cares and responsibilities of a father. A father
for the first time in his seventieth year. And Mary, Mary! So soon was
triumph changed to terror and woe.
The doctor gave him a little comfort when he came. He said that such
cases were not very rare. So great a shock and ordeal to go through
acted on delicate nerves and organization with a force they were unable
to withstand, and sometimes the mind was pushed off its balance. There
would be nothing to be alarmed about if this state should continue for a
week or two or even more. It was not very uncommon. The doctor had
various instances on his tongue as glib as if they had been a list of
patronesses at a ball. Nothing to be afraid of! It would pass away he
declared and leave no sign. As for the interview with Mrs. John, he did
not think that had anything to do with it; there was quite enough to
account for it without that. He thought it best that Lord Frogmore
should keep out of the way, not to distress himself with so melancholy a
sight. Yes, it was distressing and melancholy: but soon it would pass
over, and be like a dream. The old lord was comforted by this
consolatory opinion, for the first hour very much so, hoping, as he was
told to hope, that in a few days all that alarmed him might be over, and
his wife restored to him. But he was less confident at night, and still
less confident next day. Indeed he wanted constant assurance that
everything would soon be well. He flagged almost immediately after the
new hope had been formed with him, as every day he stole into his wife’s
room, and every day came downstairs again with the horrible conviction
that there was no improvement. Poor Mary! her very face seemed changed;
it was haggard and drawn, and her eyes so wistful and so watchful, shone
upon him like stars, not of hope but of misery. Oh, the terror in them,
and the watchfulness! For some days she was afraid of him, and turned to
the nurse from him, as if to hide herself from his look. But by-and-bye
she became quiet, supporting his presence, but keeping always a watchful
eye upon him; supporting him and enduring his presence. Oh, what a thing
to say of Mary, his gentle wife, his happy companion. The heart of the
old lord sank lower and lower as those dreadful days went by.