{52}
{53}
THE LONG INHERITANCE
I
My niece, Desire Withacre, wished to divorce her husband, Dr. Arnold
Ackroyd,--the young Dr. Arnold, you understand,--to the end that she
might marry a more interesting man.
Other men than I have noticed that in these latter days we really do
not behave any better than other people when it comes to certain
serious issues of life, notably the marital. "We" means to me people
of an heredity and a training like my own,--Americans of the old
stock, with a normal Christian upbringing, who presumably inherit from
their forebears a reasonable susceptibility to high ideals of living.
I grew {54} up with the impression that such a birth and rearing were
a kind of moral insurance against the grosser human blunders and
errors. Without vanity, I certainly did
"Thank the goodness and the grace
That on my birth had smiled."
It puzzled me for a long while, the light-hearted, careless way in
which some of the younger Withacres, Greenings, Raynies, Fordhams, and
so on (I name them out of many, because they are all kin to me) kicked
over the traces of their family responsibilities. I could understand
it in others but not in them.
It was little Desire Withacre who finally illuminated the problem for
me. I am about to tell what I know of Desire's fling. If it seems to
be a story with an undue amount of moral, I must {55} refer the
responsibility of that to Providence. The tale is of its making, not
of mine.
I am afraid that, to get it all clearly before you, I shall have to
prose for a while about the families involved.
I am Benjamin Stubbins Raynie, Desire's bachelor uncle, and almost the
last of the big-nosed Raynies. My elder sister, Lucretia Stubbins
Raynie, married Robert Withacre, one of the "wild Withacres" in whose
blood there is a streak of genius and its revolts. The Withacres all
have talent--mostly ineffectual--and keen aesthetic sensibilities. All
of them can talk like angels from Heaven. By no stretch of the
imagination can they be called thrifty. We considered it a very poor
match for Lucretia. The Raynies are quiet people, not showy, but
substantial and sensible; with a certain sentimental {56} streak
out-cropping here and there, especially in the big-nosed branch; while
the red-headed Raynies are the better money-makers.
I know now that Lucretia secretly believed her offspring were destined
to unite Withacre talent and Raynie poise. She prayed in her heart
that the world might be the richer by a man child of her race who
should be both gifted and sane. But her children proved to be twin
girls, Judith and Desire. Queer little codgers I thought them,
big-eyed, curly-headed, subdued when on exhibition. Lucretia told long
stories, to which I gave slight attention, intended to prove that
Judith was a marvelous example of old-head-on-young-shoulders, and
that Desire, demure, elfin Desire, was a miracle of cleverness and
winning ways.
In view of Desire's career, I judge {57} that these maternal
prepossessions were not wholly misplaced. As a small child she
captivated her Uncle Greening as well as her aunt (our sister, Mary
Stubbins Raynie, married Adam Greening of the well-known banking firm
of Greening, Bowers & Co.). The Greenings were childless, and Desire
spent much of her early life and nearly all her girlhood under Mary
Greening's care and chaperonage. I confess to fondness for a bit of
repartee with Desire now and then, myself. Perhaps I had my share in
spoiling her. I take it a human being is spoiled when he grows up
believing himself practically incapable of wrong-doing. That is what
happened to Desire. Approval had followed her all of her days. How
should she know, poor, petted little scrap, any thing about the
predestined pitfalls of all flesh?
{58}
Of course the Robert Withacres were always as poor as poverty, and of
course our family was always planning for and assisting them.
Fortunately both the twins married early, and exceptionally well.
Judith became engaged to a promising young civil engineer when
visiting a school friend in Chicago. He said she reminded him of the
New London girls. He was homesick, I think. At all events the
engagement was speedy.
But our little Desire did better than that. She witched the heart out
of young Arnold Ackroyd.
Do I need to explain the Ackroyds to any one? They are one of those
exceptional families whose moral worth is so prominent that it even
dims the lustre of their intellectual stability and their financial
rating. They are so many other, better things that no one ever {59}
thinks or speaks of them as "rich." And in this day and generation
that is real achievement.
Desire's marriage gratified me deeply, and for a wedding present I
gave her the Queen Anne silver tea-set I inherited from great-aunt
Abby. I believe in the Ackroyds, root and branch. They have, somehow
or other, accomplished what all the rest of us are striving for. They
have actually lifted an entire family connection to a plane where
ability, worth, accomplishment, are matters of course. Nobody has ever
heard of a useless, incompetent Ackroyd. Their consequent social
preeminence, which possibly meant something to Mary Greening and which
certainly counted with Desire, is merely incidental to their
substantial merit. They are prominent for the rare reason that they
deserve to be. They are the Real Thing.
{60}
Unless you happen to be in touch with them intellectually, however,
this is not saying that you will always find all of them the liveliest
of companions. The name connotes honor, ability, character; it does
not necessarily imply humor, high spirits, the joy of life.
Desire herself told me of her engagement. I don't, somehow, forget how
she looked when she came to tell me about it--shy, excited, radiant.
She fluttered into my office and stood at the end of my desk, looking
down at me. Desire was very pretty at twenty-one, with her pointed
face and big expressive eyes, her white forehead shadowed by a heap of
cloudy, curling, dark hair. Palpitating with life, she looked like
some kind of a marvelous human hummingbird. It did not surprise me
that Arnold Ackroyd found her
"All a wonder and a wild desire."
{61}
For all her excitement she spoke very softly.
"Uncle Ben, mother wants me to tell you something. I have n't told
anybody else but her."
"What is it, Desire?"
"I--why, Uncle Ben--I've promised to marry Arnold Ackroyd!"
"Well, well," I said inadequately, "this is news!"
Desire nodded wistfully.
"It seems a little curious, does n't it? We're not a bit alike," she
said. "But he is splendid! I'm sure I shall never meet a finer man,
nor one I trust more."
"Very true, Desire, and I am glad you are going to marry such a man,"
I observed, arising slowly to the occasion and to my feet, and
offering a congratulatory hand.
"Mother says it's a wonderful {62} thought for a young woman that her
future is as secure as the cycle of the seasons," returned Desire,
with her hand in mine, "and I suppose it is, but that is n't why I
love him. Uncle Ben, he's really wonderful when you find out what he's
thinking behind those quiet eyes. And then--do you know he's one of the
few really meritorious persons I ever made like me. I've been afraid
there was something queer about me, for freaks always take to me at
once. But if Arnold Ackroyd likes me, I _must_ be all right, mustn't
I? It's such a relief to be sure of it!"
I took this for a touch of flippancy, having forgotten how long the
young must grope and wonder, hopelessly, before they find and realize
themselves. It was, I think, precisely because Arnold Ackroyd helped
that vibrant temperament to feel itself resting on {63} solid ground
that he became so easily paramount in Desire's life at this time.
However it may have been afterward, during their brief engagement he
was all things to my niece, while she to him was a creature of
enchantment. I shall always maintain that they knew young love at its
best.
Desire was wedded with more pomp and circumstance than Lucretia and I
really cared for. That was her Aunt Greening's affair. Mary Greening
always did like an effect of pageantry, and was willing to pay for it.
They went abroad afterwards, and I remember as significant that Desire
enjoyed the Musee de Cluny more than the lectures they heard at the
Sorbonne. On their return they lived in dignity and comfort. They had
a couple of pretty, unusual-looking children, who were provided with a
French nurse at {64} twenty months, and other educational conveniences
in due season, more in accordance with the standards of Grandmamma
Ackroyd than with the demands of the Withacres and Raynies.
They were certainly as happy as most people. If Desire had any
ungratified wishes, I never heard of them. I dined with them
frequently, but now see that I knew absolutely nothing about them. I
took it for granted that they would always walk, as they seemed to be
doing, in ways of pleasantness and peace.
It never entered my head that anybody of my own blood and a decent
bringing-up could do what Desire did presently. I had a simple-minded
notion that we were above it. Which brings me back to my premise.
After all, we of a long inheritance of upright {65} living do not
always behave better than other people.