The Hemples' apartment--they owned it--was in one of those impersonal
white palaces that are known by number instead of name. They had
furnished it on their honeymoon, gone to England for the big pieces, to
Florence for the bric-à-brac, and to Venice for the lace and sheer
linen of the curtains and for the glass of many colors which littered
the table when they entertained. Luella enjoyed choosing things on her
honeymoon. It gave a purposeful air to the trip, and saved it from ever
turning into the rather dismal wandering among big hotels and desolate
ruins which European honeymoons are apt to be.
They returned, and life began. On the grand scale. Luella found herself
a lady of substance. It amazed her sometimes that the specially created
apartment and the specially created limousine were hers, just as
indisputably as the mortgaged suburban bungalow out of _The Ladies' Home
Journal_ and the last year's car that fate might have given her instead.
She was even more amazed when it all began to bore her. But it did....
The evening was at seven when she turned out of the April dusk, let
herself into the hall, and saw her husband waiting in the living-room
before an open fire. She came in without a sound, closed the door
noiselessly behind her, and stood watching him for a moment through the
pleasant effective vista of the small _salon_ which intervened. Charles
Hemple was in the middle thirties, with a young serious face and
distinguished iron-gray hair which would be white in ten years more.
That and his deep-set, dark-gray eyes were his most noticeable
features--women always thought his hair was romantic; most of the time
Luella thought so too.
At this moment she found herself hating him a little, for she saw that
he had raised his hand to his face and was rubbing it nervously over his
chin and mouth. It gave him an air of unflattering abstraction, and
sometimes even obscured his words, so that she was continually saying
"What?" She had spoken about it several times, and he had apologized in
a surprised way. But obviously he didn't realize how noticeable and how
irritating it was, for he continued to do it. Things had now reached
such a precarious state that Luella dreaded speaking of such matters any
more--a certain sort of word might precipitate the imminent scene.
Luella tossed her gloves and purse abruptly on the table. Hearing the
faint sound, her husband looked out toward the hall.
"Is that you, dear?"
"Yes, dear."
She went into the living-room, and walked into his arms and kissed him
tensely. Charles Hemple responded with unusual formality, and then
turned her slowly around so that she faced across the room.
"I've brought some one home to dinner."
She saw then that they were not alone, and her first feeling was of
strong relief; the rigid expression on her face softened into a shy,
charming smile as she held out her hand.
"This is Doctor Moon--this is my wife."
A man a little older than her husband, with a round, pale, slightly
lined face, came forward to meet her.
"Good evening, Mrs. Hemple," he said. "I hope I'm not interfering with
any arrangement of yours."
"Oh, no," Luella cried quickly. "I'm delighted that you're coming to
dinner. We're quite alone."
Simultaneously she thought of her engagement to-night, and wondered if
this could be a clumsy trap of Charles' to keep her at home. If it were,
he had chosen his bait badly. This man--a tired placidity radiated from
him, from his face, from his heavy, leisurely voice, even from the
three-year-old shine of his clothes.
Nevertheless, she excused herself and went into the kitchen to see what
was planned for dinner. As usual they were trying a new pair of
servants, the luncheon had been ill-cooked and ill-served--she would let
them go to-morrow. She hoped Charles would talk to them--she hated to
get rid of servants. Sometimes they wept, and sometimes they were
insolent, but Charles had a way with him. And they were always afraid of
a man.
The cooking on the stove, however, had a soothing savor. Luella gave
instructions about "which china," and unlocked a bottle of precious
chianti from the buffet. Then she went in to kiss young Chuck good
night.
"Has he been good?" she demanded as he crawled enthusiastically into her
arms.
"Very good," said the governess. "We went for a long walk over by
Central Park."
"Well, aren't you a smart boy!" She kissed him ecstatically.
"And he put his foot into the fountain, so we had to come home in a taxi
right away and change his little shoe and stocking."
"That's right. Here, wait a minute, _Chuck_!" Luella unclasped the great
yellow beads from around her neck and handed them to him. "You mustn't
break mama's beads." She turned to the nurse. "Put them on my dresser,
will you, after he's asleep?"
She felt a certain compassion for her son as she went away--the small
enclosed life he led, that all children led, except in big families. He
was a dear little rose, except on the days when she took care of him.
His face was the same shape as hers; she was thrilled sometimes, and
formed new resolves about life when his heart beat against her own.
In her own pink and lovely bedroom, she confined her attentions to her
face, which she washed and restored. Doctor Moon didn't deserve a change
of dress, and Luella found herself oddly tired, though she had done very
little all day. She returned to the living-room, and they went in to
dinner.
"Such a nice house, Mrs. Hemple," said Doctor Moon impersonally; "and
let me congratulate you on your fine little boy."
"Thanks. Coming from a doctor, that's a nice compliment." She hesitated.
"Do you specialize in children?"
"I'm not a specialist at all," he said. "I'm about the last of my
kind--a general practitioner."
"The last in New York, anyhow," remarked Charles. He had begun rubbing
his face nervously, and Luella fixed her eyes on Doctor Moon so that she
wouldn't see. But at Charles's next words she looked back at him
sharply.
"In fact," he said unexpectedly, "I've invited Doctor Moon here because
I wanted you to have a talk with him to-night."
Luella sat up straight in her chair.
"A talk with _me_?"
"Doctor Moon's an old friend of mine, and I think he can tell you a few
things, Luella, that you ought to know."
"Why--" She tried to laugh, but she was surprised and annoyed. "I don't
see, exactly, what you mean. There's nothing the matter with me. I don't
believe I've ever felt better in my life."
Doctor Moon looked at Charles, asking permission to speak. Charles
nodded, and his hand went up automatically to his face.
"Your husband has told me a great deal about your unsatisfactory life
together," said Doctor Moon, still impersonally. "He wonders if I can be
of any help in smoothing things out."
Luella's face was burning.
"I have no particular faith in psychoanalysis," she said coldly, "and I
scarcely consider myself a subject for it."
"Neither have I," answered Doctor Moon, apparently unconscious of the
snub; "I have no particular faith in anything but myself. I told you I
am not a specialist, nor, I may add, a faddist of any sort. I promise
nothing."
For a moment Luella considered leaving the room. But the effrontery of
the suggestion aroused her curiosity too.
"I can't imagine what Charles has told you," she said, controlling
herself with difficulty, "much less why. But I assure you that our
affairs are a matter entirely between my husband and me. If you have no
objections, Doctor Moon, I'd much prefer to discuss something--less
personal."
Doctor Moon nodded heavily and politely. He made no further attempt to
open the subject, and dinner proceeded in what was little more than a
defeated silence. Luella determined that, whatever happened, she would
adhere to her plans for to-night. An hour ago her independence had
demanded it, but now some gesture of defiance had become necessary to
her self-respect. She would stay in the living-room for a short moment
after dinner; then, when the coffee came, she would excuse herself and
dress to go out.
But when they did leave the dining-room, it was Charles who, in a quick,
unarguable way, vanished.
"I have a letter to write," he said; "I'll be back in a moment." Before
Luella could make a diplomatic objection, he went quickly down the
corridor to his room, and she heard him shut his door.
Angry and confused, Luella poured the coffee and sank into a corner of
the couch, looking intently at the fire.
"Don't be afraid, Mrs. Hemple," said Doctor Moon suddenly. "This was
forced upon me. I do not act as a free agent----"
"I'm not afraid of you," she interrupted. But she knew that she was
lying. She was a little afraid of him, if only for his dull
insensitiveness to her distaste.
"Tell me about your trouble," he said very naturally, as though she were
not a free agent either. He wasn't even looking at her, and except that
they were alone in the room, he scarcely seemed to be addressing her at
all.
The words that were in Luella's mind, her will, on her lips, were: "I'll
do no such thing." What she actually said amazed her. It came out of her
spontaneously, with apparently no co-operation of her own.
"Didn't you see him rubbing his face at dinner?" she said despairingly.
"Are you blind? He's become so irritating to me that I think I'll go
mad."
"I see." Doctor Moon's round face nodded.
"Don't you see I've had enough of home?" Her breasts seemed to struggle
for air under her dress. "Don't you see how bored I am with keeping
house, with the baby--everything seems as if it's going on forever and
ever? I want excitement; and I don't care what form it takes or what I
pay for it, so long as it makes my heart beat."
"I see."
It infuriated Luella that he claimed to understand. Her feeling of
defiance had reached such a pitch that she preferred that no one should
understand. She was content to be justified by the impassioned sincerity
of her desires.
"I've tried to be good, and I'm not going to try any more. If I'm one of
those women who wreck their lives for nothing, then I'll do it now. You
can call me selfish, or silly, and be quite right; but in five minutes
I'm going out of this house and begin to be alive."
This time Doctor Moon didn't answer, but he raised his head as if he
were listening to something that was taking place a little distance
away.
"You're not going out," he said after a moment; "I'm quite sure you're
not going out."
Luella laughed.
"I _am_ going out."
He disregarded this.
"You see, Mrs. Hemple, your husband isn't well. He's been trying to live
your kind of life, and the strain of it has been too much for him. When
he rubs his mouth----"
Light steps came down the corridor, and the maid, with a frightened
expression on her face, tiptoed into the room.
"Mrs. Hemple----"
Startled at the interruption, Luella turned quickly.
"Yes?"
"Can I speak to--?" Her fear broke precipitately through her slight
training. "Mr. Hemple, he's sick! He came into the kitchen a while ago
and began throwing all the food out of the ice-box, and now he's in his
room, crying and singing----"
Suddenly Luella heard his voice.