A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

“I am sure of it. He is peculiar in many ways, he abhors strongly anything in the nature of deceit. If she came to him openly and said she was going to give Archie money, he might remonstrate with her, actually forbid her, or take the view that it was her own and she could do what she wished with it. But he would never forgive her doing it clandestinely, I mean in large sums. He would think it a betrayal of the trust he had reposed in her.”

Lane’s brain was still working on the problem presented to him. Morrice, according to Rosabelle, made his wife a handsome allowance. That might be taken for granted. He had a wide reputation for generosity, and for pride’s sake he would be especially lavish to his wife. But what is a very ample allowance for a woman does not go far when constant drains are made upon it by a young man who lived in the style that Simmons had described when speaking of Archie Brookes.

“Have you noticed any diminution in Mrs. Morrice’s expenditure on herself since the arrival of this nephew on the scene, Miss Sheldon?”

Rosabelle gave her evidence very reluctantly, but it was right Lane should know the whole circumstances. From the very beginning, her aunt had appeared to curtail her personal expenditure. For the last twelve months, her economy in her own direction had been much more marked. It pointed to the fact that Archie had been draining her considerably.

Lane thought more than considerably. That poignant exclamation that she had been half ruined suggested a good deal to him.

“I am going to ask you a rather peculiar question, Miss Sheldon. Are Mr. and Mrs. Morrice what might be described as a very devoted couple? You know what I mean, are they wrapt up in each other as some people are at their time of life when they have married solely for love?”

It was a peculiar question certainly; to Rosabelle it seemed rather an irrelevant one. But she was sure the detective never asked irrelevant questions. He had some good reason for putting this one, without doubt, and she would give him a perfectly candid answer.

“Why, no, it certainly would not be accurate to describe them as that. I am certain they have a great respect for each other, and a very quiet and placid affection. He is the soul of generosity and courtesy to her; she respects his wishes in everything. You see, he was devotedly in love with Mr. Croxton’s mother; he kept unmarried for years for her sake. A man cannot love twice like that, can he, Mr. Lane?” concluded Rosabelle artlessly.

The detective smiled kindly at the romantic girl. No doubt she was contrasting the placid affection between the Morrices, and her own ardent love for young Croxton and his for her. And no doubt she was sure, like all fervent souls, that when the years had silvered her hair and stolen the roses from her cheeks, love would burn as brightly as in the hey-day of their glorious youth.

“I am not a great expert in the tender passion, Miss Sheldon, but I am quite prepared to believe real love comes but once in a lifetime to either man or woman. Well, now, I am much obliged to you for telling me what you have done, and I am glad you told me. For the present we will keep it to ourselves. But I think you had better face the fact that, sooner or later, Mr. Morrice will have to be told by one of us.”