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.