In July the baby was born. Anne was very ill and Hilda fluttered about
looking reproachfully at Roger. But, with the least impatience of Roger
toward her, she propitiated him with assurances that many women were
worse, that Anne would not die or be a wreck for life; and when, at
the end of two weeks, Anne took a decided turn for the better and the
doctors let him go in for a few moments to see her, Hilda acted as if
she had personally managed this for his peace of mind.
Anne was so small and white, so exhausted and utterly content, and his
son was such a mite of a thing; although the nurse assured him that
little Roger was an "exceptional" fine and healthy boy, Roger felt
that any life encased in such a tiny and strengthless form must be
precarious. They were so small and helpless, dependent so completely on
him. It frightened Roger. Now that his son was there before him, Roger
was humble. His own part in this creation no longer seemed a thing of
choice. He had been used by the force of Life, which refused to stop.
It would go on and on and on, through little Roger and little Roger's
sons; on, in its majestic stride indifferent to the means it used, to
him as an individual, on to the fulfillment of its own purpose.
Roger went back to the office and was glad that Katya was alone.
"It's a boy," he said queerly, "such a wee mite of red. He fumbles with
his clenched fists and sucks in the air. He doesn't seem human."
She listened without looking directly at Roger and did not ask after
Anne. Just then Merle came in and Katya began to work again.
But Merle announced that the moment Anne was home she was coming up to
see the baby. Roger laughed:
"You wouldn't know which end to take hold of, Merle. He's not bigger
than a minute."
"You clumsy brute. I'll bet you're afraid to touch him yourself."
"I am, just about."
Merle giggled. "Well, I'm not and I'm going up to play with him next
week."
"You'll be two of a kind," Roger teased, "only don't teach him any of
your swear words. They're picturesque--but remember, he's a pure soul."
"Don't worry. I wouldn't teach him or any other living soul a thing.
He'll get enough of that before long, poor little devil. This place
reeks with instruction."
"But you've escaped," Roger teased on; "the first axiom of the Social
Revolution never got under your skin."
"Oh, yes it did. Only it started to fester--and I cut it out." On that
she went whistling, the green tam pulled coquettishly to one side.
When Anne was home again Merle kept her promise. At first she stayed
only a few moments, but gradually the habit formed for her to drop in
late in the afternoon, several times a week. As Anne grew stronger and
began again to get regular meals, she often let Merle undress Rogie and
make him ready for bed. It seemed to please the girl to take off the
tiny garments and feel the soft, warm roundness of the strong little
body.
One night in mid-October, a warm evening of glowing sunset, Anne came
into the bedroom from the kitchen at the sound of Merle's low crooning.
Merle's single song was Tipperary and she had mangled the martial notes
to a strange lullaby. Anne laughed and Merle turned quickly, Rogie
clasped tight as if from intrusion. Then she laughed, too, not quite so
gayly as Anne, and together they put him to bed. When he was tucked in
and the window open, Merle followed Anne back to the kitchen.
"Did you really want Rogie, Anne, or was he an accident?"
Anne flushed at the unwarranted intimacy. But Merle was leaning against
the wall, her full throat rising so young and white from her brilliant
smock, her eyes so serious, that Anne relented.
"I wanted him," she said hastily.
Merle did not answer for a moment. She seemed to be looking at
something in no way connected with Anne.
"I wonder if it would have worked out all right--if I had gone ahead.
But I haven't your grit, Anne. And I was bugs about Tom; oh, nuts,
simply nuts. I believed he was God. If he'd told me to jump off the
ferry boat, I'd have done it without waiting to ask him why." There was
no bitterness, just the bewildered statement of a fact, a fact that had
once been true and that Merle wished were true now.
It was the first reference she had ever made to her relations with
Black Tom O'Connell. Anne wished she had not said anything but it
seemed unkind to cut her off.
"Didn't--he--want--one?"
"Well, not so you could notice. He has some of his own, you know, so
perhaps that makes a difference. I don't suppose if it had been the
third or fourth I'd have been as excited myself as I was. But when I
told him, he said 'Good God!' and looked so solemn I was scared to
death. Having a baby seemed the most terribly serious thing in the
world; and then he began to talk of all the suffering and poverty in
the world, just as if we were responsible for it, until I saw the poor
little beggar starving to death under my nose. Well, perhaps he might
have," Merle added with a shrug. "We were sure in a hell of a mess. We
were broke, as usual. The police were watching Tom--it was the first
months of the war when they were locking up everybody--and I never knew
when Tom went out whether he would come back. I own that I felt pretty
solemn myself at times. The world seemed to have gone mad. It's died
out now, but you remember that feeling as if the bottom of life might
drop out at any moment or the heavens open and sweep us all away? There
did seem to be so many needless millions in the world already. And what
for? Gunfodder. So--I--had it done."
There was no mistaking Merle's meaning. Anne put the saucepan down on
the sink very slowly and stood with her back to Merle. She felt the
girl's eyes on her rigid body, but it was beyond her power to move or
speak.
"I suppose you wouldn't have done it. Nobody could scare you like that,
but I must say that Tom didn't force me. He didn't even suggest it.
He just frightened me to death with the responsibility and left the
decision to me. But he never said afterwards that he wished I hadn't,
although--I got to feel that way myself. I got to thinking about it,
seeing it--and although I knew it wasn't really alive, it kind of grew,
in the night specially when I was waiting for Tom and didn't know
whether he had been arrested or not--staring at me with those big,
bulging eyes. You know--kind of seeing nothing and yet knowing all the
time what I had done to it. I got woozy----"
"Stop." Anne dragged herself round and, gripping the sink board,
stared, white and sick, at Merle. Merle flushed.
"Oh, come off, Anne; you needn't look like that. Thousands of women do
it; a million a year, here in the United States alone, and you know it.
Because they're too lazy to have them, or want to gad, scores are doing
it all the time. Everybody knows it. Besides, it's not nearly so bad
to----" Merle hesitated, and then at the loathing in Anne's eyes, threw
the words at her, "to abort it before it's really alive at all, as it
is to let it come and then see it starve or go to the devil."
"Please don't say any more about it, Merle. I can't stand it."
Just then Roger turned the key in the latch.
"I'm--not blaming you, Merle, but it--makes me sick all over."
Quick to forgive, Merle came and put her arm across Anne's shoulder and
Anne succeeded in not shuddering. "You're just like a little silver
fairy, Anne. And I bet you spoil Rogie like the devil."
"But you forget this stern parent," Roger laughed from the doorway.
"I'll discipline him; he's going to be the finest young revolutionist
you ever saw."
Merle grinned: "Aren't you and Tom and Katya going to get the poor old
world straightened out before that?"
"You're a scoffer." Roger came to Anne and kissed her, but she wanted
to take little Rogie and run far from every one; far from those
terrible, bulging eyes; those blind, embryonic eyes, resentful,
unseeing, so eternally wise.
She served the dinner, but ate little, and was grateful when Merle
went. Until she had gone Anne did not feel that she could go near
Rogie. But the moment after she had left, Anne went softly into the
bedroom. Kneeling by the baby's crib, she looked so long that he seemed
to feel it and frowned and moved in his sleep. He was there, safe,
alive and hers. But Anne felt all the babies in the world, the babies
thwarted of life, staring at her in the warm blackness of the night.
She had wanted him and he was there, but she felt as if, somehow, he
had missed a great danger. As if he had won to life by a chance.
Had Roger really wanted him?
Anne rose quickly. Again she saw the look of stupefaction in Roger's
eyes. Heard his "Good Lord!"
Anne went slowly out of the room. Roger was reading under the shaded
light. He was very strong, very sure of himself, sure that he was
right. She stood looking at him speculatively. For the first time since
her marriage Anne thought of Roger as the man she had married.
Feeling her eyes on him, Roger glanced up.
"What's the matter?"
"Did you ever wish--before--after I told you that Rogie was
coming--that--that--I--that some way----?"
"What on earth are you talking about," Roger asked after a pause in
which he waited bewildered for Anne to finish.
Anne moistened her lips. "Did you ever
feel--like--suggesting--that--I----?"
She could not say it. Roger frowned and then understanding came to him.
"What are you trying to say, Anne? Do you mean did I ever wish that you
wouldn't go on with it?"
Anne nodded.
Roger rose and put both hands on her shoulders.
"What's the matter with you, Anne? No, of course I didn't."
"Not--once, not even once--the least wish----"
"No," Roger said quietly. "I never thought of it once."
"Are you glad now, really glad we have him?"
"I certainly am, Anne; what on earth is the matter with you?"
Anne began to cry. "Merle told me--Tom--oh, Roger, it makes me sick
all over. I--I loathe that man. How can he care about the world
and--and--be like--he is?"
Roger's hands dropped from Anne's shoulders. "Let's not discuss Tom,
Princess; we never agree."
Anne flared. "You don't think it's wicked or disgusting, you don't
really--you wouldn't have--minded."
"Stop it, Anne, please. You're being awfully unjust and you know it.
He was poor, broke, hunted, everything was chaos. The cases aren't the
same at all. Besides, Merle isn't fit to be a mother."
"She's fit to be a mistress."
Roger turned to the couch again and picked up his book.
Anne stood where she was, tense, her lips drawn.
"So you knew it? Perhaps he boasts of it--as one of his 'sacrifices for
the Revolution.' When did he tell you?"
"He didn't tell me," Roger answered patiently. "Katya did, one day when
we were talking about Merle."
Anne's small frame tightened. "Well! Of all things to discuss with
another woman!"
"Oh, hell," Roger exploded, "come off that pedestal, Anne. It's
ridiculous."