A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

He had taken the young fellow into his own house and made him his confidential secretary. Some women might have resented such a sudden intrusion, but Mrs. Morrice was not of a petty or jealous nature. She grew in time to be very fond of Richard Croxton, and did not in the least begrudge him his place in her husband’s affections.

There sauntered up to the two young fellows a very distinguished-looking man of about fifty years of age. Aristocrat was written all over him—in his tall, elegant figure, his aquiline features, his long, shapely, well-manicured hands, his cultivated and well-bred voice. This was Sir George Clayton-Brookes, the paternal uncle of Archie, a well-known personage in London society, a member of some of the most exclusive clubs, and, report said, the possessor of considerable wealth. He had added the name of Clayton on inheriting a fortune from a distant relative.

He greeted Croxton with an air of great cordiality. His manners were very polished, some people thought they were just a trifle too suave for perfect sincerity.

“Well, my dear Richard, how goes the world with you?” Using the privilege of seniority, he always addressed the young man by his Christian name. For his part, Croxton did not always feel anything like the same antagonism towards the uncle that he felt for the nephew, but he did not really like him. There was something too oily about the man for his taste.

Some commonplace reply was made to this inquiry, and Sir George went on in his smooth, well-bred tones.

“A charming gathering, everything perfect and in good taste, as usual. I really think this is almost the most pleasing house in London; luxury without ostentation, wealth without oppressive magnificence. But then who can wonder at it when you have host and hostess who pull together so splendidly?”

He was a great hand at compliments, this elegant-mannered man of the world, well-known on every race-course in England, well-known in Paris and at Monte Carlo, where he played with varying fortune, sometimes winning, more frequently losing. For he was an inveterate gambler.

And in paying his flowery compliments, either directly, or as in this case, obliquely through the medium of a third party, he generally laid it on with a trowel, so to speak. But to-night, in praising the Morrices as he did, he was not speaking much more than the truth.

For wealthy as they were, both Morrice and his wife loathed anything in the shape of ostentation. They left that to the nouveau riche. The man had been used to riches from a boy, they were no novelty to him, for his grandfather had founded the great business of which he had for so many years been the head. His wife, though poor for her position, was said to be descended from a very old family. Such people as these were not likely to shock their friends and acquaintances with vulgar display.

The house in Deanery Street looked very charming with its softly shaded lights, its profusion of flowers, its crowd of beautifully dressed women and well-groomed men. It wanted about three weeks to Christmas. Very shortly the host and hostess were leaving for a month’s sojourn at Mürren, to enjoy the ski-ing. Richard Croxton and Rosabelle Sheldon, a niece and ward of the financier, were to accompany them.