The unconsciousness of the confession chilled Anne's joy a little. It
made her feel a traitor to her people and she moved away and stood
looking thoughtfully down into the fire. Her mother, so stiff and
subdued in the new waist, so happy in her happiness; Belle, bored,
but generous always in her love; even her father so genial that she
had wondered several times during dinner whether, if the conditions
of his life had been different, he would have been quite so dull and
gray-souled and selfish. Each in his own way was a little vain and
proud of the way she now lived. To her father and mother, at least, she
was a very real part of life; through her, they touched experience not
their own. But they were no longer a needed part of her life. Across
the chasm of the full present and her future with Roger, they stood
apart in the past, a tiny group, a little isolated and lonely, even
Belle.
Her eyes filled with tears and Roger took her quickly in his arms.
"Why, Princess, what is it?"
"Oh, Roger, it is tragic, really. I felt it all evening, and when they
followed you down the stairs and I knew you would come back alone
and they would go to that cold, dismal flat--they seemed suddenly so
cut off, so separate. They were the Mitchells and--and we were the
Bartons--and it hurt."
"But, honey girl, that's such a natural thing. It's always that way.
How did you expect to feel toward your lawful husband?" he added,
trying to force an answering smile into Anne's eyes. But she only
burrowed deeper into his shoulder and he felt her body quivering.
"It's awful the way children grow up and go away. Mamma hasn't anything
really but me and Belle. She's gone on all these years--kind of looking
forward, feeling in the midst of life--oh, I can't get it into words,
but she doesn't seem to have anything. She's always been so cheerful
and planning and doing the best she knew how--and now--there doesn't
seem to be any reason for her to keep it up."
Roger stroked Anne's hair gently. "I know, dear, but any one who hasn't
anything of his very own in life, has to come to that point. And most
people haven't."
"But she did have something of her own. We were her own. She's lost it."
"Nobody can be anybody else's own, not lastingly their own. Men and
women who haven't anything but their children, haven't really anything
at all. They're just vehicles for the next generation, a kind of
machine to keep things running. And what's the good of keeping things
running, unless you make them better?"
Anne lay close to Roger, her nerves relaxing under the soft touch of
his fingers.
"Roger," she whispered after a long silence, "don't you ever want
children?"
Roger's stroking of her hair ceased. She looked up into his suddenly
grave eyes. Already Anne was seeing life in relation to children, and
he had not thought of a child at all. It seemed very necessary to be
honest in his answer.
"It's this way. I do, if you do. But there's so much to do in the
world, and there are so many people in it already, that it seems to
me selfish just to add to the numbers. There's a lot of talk about
children being the highest work of the race and all that, but it seems
to me it's on the part of people who can't do anything else. Most
anybody can have children, and very few can do anything else; but
what's the good of perpetuating a race on and on without time or space
to grow in? As for the comfort of children, the selfish clutching at
companionship or less lonely age--well--if the children are really
worth while as human beings, if they're going to add anything to the
sum of life, they have to be so far in advance of their parents'
generation--that you just can't bridge the gap. And even if they're
not, but just trudge along in the old groove--still they're themselves
and not you really. They----"
"Don't," Anne cried, "it breaks my heart."
Roger held her closer still and began stroking her hair again. But he
felt, for the first time, a difference between himself and Anne. Was
this just the difference between all men and all women? Or was it a
difference between one viewpoint and another? The natural growth of
life, the widening of human outlook, the wrenching of any bonds, these
were pain to all the Mitchells in the world. The sentimental, clutching
possession of "family" was Love to them. Roger wished he knew exactly
what Anne was thinking, drawn close to him, her arm creeping up until
it circled his neck in a clinging hold.
"Roger, let's never grow apart. Let's share always. Wait, if one of us
has to, but never go on alone. I--I--couldn't bear it, Roger, now."
"Neither could I, Princess." Roger took Anne's face between his hands
and tried to smile into her eyes. But, at the cool firmness of her
cheeks beneath his fingers, the smile burned to a flame that scorched
Anne's eyes; with a little sigh she closed them and raised her lips to
his.