“Oh, my dear,” said Letitia, “I know all about hearts breaking. It never stops you from having your own way. What is the use of saying you would rather die? Would you rather die with all the good things in life before you? Nonsense, Mary! Don’t talk to me as if I didn’t know all about it. Now you’ll be petted and feted and made as if there never was the like before. You and your baby—while my poor Duke, my Duke, that was the real, rightful heir——”
Mrs. John burst forth in sobs and tears, and the room grew darker and darker. Mary, huddled up in a corner of the sofa, heard and saw no more.
CHAPTER XXI.
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?”