"Of course I want it, too, Anne. There, dear, there."
Just as if she were a child, crying for a toy, instead of a woman telling the father of her child the most wonderful news in the world!
Anne lay close, afraid to move away, to make concrete to herself her own hurt and anger and separateness from Roger. He had not wanted it. His first reaction had not been joy, but fear. Fear of what? Over-burdening the world with one small baby more? Or fear for himself, the new weight of responsibility?
"Please, dear, won't you believe me? I am glad. But it came so suddenly. Why——"
It was Roger now who was suddenly afraid to voice his question. Why had Anne chosen that moment to tell him? Had she thrown the thing at him, a grapple to hold him fast in safe acceptance of Hilary Wainwright's insincerity? Roger pushed the thought aside.
"This is not the usual way of whispering the 'sweet secret,' is it, dear?" He turned Anne's face up and smiled into her eyes, wet and hurt. "Whisper it now, Princess," and he bent his head.
But Anne could not smile. It would take all her strength and courage to forget—and forgive—that first blank, helpless bewilderment in Roger's eyes. He might be glad—he had said he was, but he was glad for her gladness. He had none for the baby itself. He was cheating the baby of its full meed of welcome, accepting gracefully now for his own peace and comfort, something he could not escape. And she had hoarded her secret. She had even thought of saving it to Christmas day! Of giving Roger this, the biggest present in her power, early in the dawn when they always waked. She had seen it so clearly, herself creeping close to Roger. Then the rain had come, walling them in together, and Roger had seemed nearer than he had for weeks and the depth of her own happiness had forced the secret from her. And Roger had said:
"Good Lord!"
Anne moved away to physical freedom. In this spiritual isolation she did not want Roger's arms about her, nor to have him touch her in any way. Roger straightened at Anne's movement and they stood, one on each side of the fireplace, outwardly two people very near in the intimacy of the low fire and shadowed lights, inwardly far apart.
Why had Anne told him, at just this moment? Why had she done it? Had she felt him slipping over the edge of Hilary Wainwright's insincerity, out from these months of his own uncertainty, into spiritual freedom, and thrown the silken lariat of her dependence over him, drawn him back to the safety of 'a job'?