"No."
"Then what do you want to go and listen to that drivel, for?"
Anne did not answer and moved to the door. Roger stepped quickly in
front of her.
"How many times have you been?"
Anne's face flamed with the ugly, brick-red flush. Her body tightened
and she looked scornfully at Roger.
"I shall be late as it is," she said stiffly. "Please let me pass."
"I won't." Roger knew that his anger was carrying him to rudeness,
but Anne's manner rasped him beyond control. Behind Anne, he saw the
subtle, low-voiced influence of Charlotte Welles. A Christian Science
wife, believing in the muddled effusions of a sick old woman; for all
he knew practicing her ridiculous faith upon him. Lost in a stupid
philosophy that denied disease and poverty, Anne dared to look in scorn
at Black Tom, at Katya, at Singh, at himself. With a quick movement,
Anne passed him and laid her hand on the door-knob.
"You sha'n't go," he cried, white with anger.
"I shall go where I please," Anne answered quietly, "I don't interfere
with you. You can go to your meeting, listen to your own particular
brand of 'drivel,' pump up the enthusiasm of a few dozen people who
don't know what else to do with themselves on a Sunday afternoon. At
least, the few million Scientists, more or less, in the world, haven't
had their belief manufactured and forced down their throats."
Roger's anger died. He reached for Rogie, and before Anne knew what had
happened, holding the baby firmly, Roger stood aside.
"You're right. You don't interfere with me. But Rogie doesn't go."
It was Anne now who flamed to anger. Standing upon her tiptoes she
snatched for the baby, who, thinking it was a new kind of game, wound
his hands in his father's thick hair and kicked with joy.
"Give him to me," she commanded in a cracked whisper.
Roger stepped back, for between himself and Anne clutching for their
child, the old Anne stood upon her tiptoes defying John Lowell.
"No, Rogie does not go." He turned and went silently back to the fire
and sat down, Rogie clinging to his neck. For a moment Anne stood
motionless in an anger that seemed to have frozen her to the bone.
Then, with a sob that was a cry of hate, she opened the door and went
quickly.
Until it was dark, Anne walked up one street and down another. She
passed mean houses where families sat at dinner behind partly-drawn
blinds, and stately homes, the intimacy of family life decorously
concealed behind thick curtains. She did not know when the high fog
parted and the stars came out, but when the sky was all a-glitter and
a soft little wind ruffled the bay, she found herself sitting on a
pile of lumber at the farthest jetty of Fisherman's Wharf. The lighted
ferries lumbered cheerfully, the fishing boats grated softly on the
piles. A few yards behind, in the new warehouse of Giuseppe Morelli, a
group of fishermen laughed and chattered while they mended their nets
against the turn of the tide.
Beyond the wharf, on the rocky crest of a hill, she could just glimpse
the cottage light. She looked at it for a long time without emotion.
She was cold and calm. Nothing could ever again stir her to anger or
feeling of any kind.
The wind freshened. The men began climbing down into their boats. With
much calling back and forth, the boats pushed off.
Anne left the wharf and went slowly up the steep, silent streets. At
the foot of her own stairs she stopped and looked at her watch. It was
five minutes after eleven.
The light in the cottage was out, the fire lay a handful of smoldering
embers. The room was rather cold but she was not conscious of its
chill although she stood for some time listening to the even breathing
of Roger asleep in the next room. Then she crept into the bedroom,
undressed and got noiselessly into bed. At its warmth, she shivered as
if touched by something unclean. But in a few minutes she was asleep,
worn by her long walk and the storm of anger and despair.
In the dawn, Roger woke, and, turning slightly, looked at Anne. She was
sleeping as always, on her side, her cheek pillowed on one arm; small,
exquisitely fair and utterly unmoving. Roger looked at her, almost with
surprise that she should be there. And then aversion to Anne's body
gripped him. He did not want to touch her or be near her. Never again
of his own impulse would he wish to hold her in his arms or kiss her.