"You see, it is just this: if Desire insists upon divorcing me the
enterprise must be properly financed. I {101} prefer to pay her
expenses myself. I am not going to have her hard up or--depending
upon any one else."
"Desire would never take money from any one but Mrs. Greening or me,
Ackroyd."
"No--I suppose not. Still, you never can tell how these confounded
modern women are going to invert things in their minds. She'd not do
it unless she could make it look high-minded and self-sacrificing, of
course. But I would rather she ran no risk of doing it. And, if you
don't mind my saying so, I would also prefer at present that even you
and Mrs. Greening kept your hands out of your pockets. You see, Desire
is my wife until she ceases to be so. It is unquestionably my right to
provide for her, even in Reno, if I choose. Of course, she would say
that, having left my bed and {102} board, she had renounced her claim
upon my bank account--that is, she would say it if she thought about
the matter at all. But she is so heedless she will probably not
question the source of supplies, certainly not if they come through
you. Will you do me this favor, Mr. Raynie?"
There was nothing for me to do but assent, but I did so a little
irritably. It seemed to me at the moment that it would be excellent
discipline to let the winds of heaven beat harshly upon Desire's
delicately guarded head, for a short time at least. I intimated as
much.
Arnold Ackroyd shook his head.
"It is too late for that kind of discipline to be effective," he said.
"I have meant that Desire should have everything that a man can give,
but there is one point I will never yield. She shall not have my
children!"
{103}
He took out his checkbook and his pen, and, writing on his knee,
filled out a check rapidly and neatly.
As he handed it to me I noted that the sum was surprisingly large,--
enough for a divorce _de luxe_. "Pardon me, but are n't you overdoing
your generosity, Arnold?" I suggested.
He moved his shoulders very slightly, and I saw his fine, surgeon's
fingers stir as though he were involuntarily washing his hands of the
whole question of money.
"Desire is accustomed to beauty as well as to comfort," he said. Then
he dropped his head on his chest and stared gravely into the fire.
"Mr. Raynie, what do the women want? What do they expect in this
world, anyhow? If the sun had dropped out of the sky, it wouldn't have
surprised me more than this thing has."
{104}
"Nor me," I confessed.
"I have been wondering if I unconsciously neglected Desire? People say
that sometimes causes them to fly the track. I am a busy man. I work
hard in an exacting profession. But, as I understand the marriage
contract, my work is a part of what I endowed her with. It is my life,
myself. We are not children. One does not marry for a playmate, does
one? But perhaps women do. Do you think I can have been at fault in
this matter?"
My only answer was an impatient snort of protest.
"I supposed she desired companionship with me as I am. Certainly that
was what I thought I asked of her. She has such a way of making life
seem vivid and interesting that her companionship was good to have,"
he said.
{105}
Something clutched at my heart strings as I saw the look of
inextinguishable longing in his eyes.
"We spoiled her between us, I suspect," he said. "On our heads be it,
for it is spoiled that she is. Mr. Raynie, I think of Desire as
undisciplined, wayward--not as wanton.--Well, I have a dozen patients
yet to see to-night. I must say good night, and thank you."
As he closed the door, I spoke aloud to myself and the witness-chair.
"There goes a gentleman," I said. "It seems they still exist. Confound
that niece of mine!"