A woman's debt

A LUCKY YOUNG FELLOW!

“You’re a lucky chap, Croxton, to have got the measure of the old man so well. I don’t suppose it will be long before you blossom into a partner.”

The speaker, Archie Brookes, a slim elegant young fellow, very good-looking but with a somewhat effeminate expression, cast a sidelong glance at his companion as he uttered the remark, to observe covertly what impression it made upon him.

There was no love lost between these two young men, although they were thrown constantly into each other’s society. Richard Croxton was the confidential secretary of Rupert Morrice, the well-known foreign banker and financier, whose firm had colossal dealings abroad. Brookes was a nephew and great favourite of the financier’s wife, the son of a dearly beloved sister who had died many years ago. In consequence of that relationship, and the partiality of his aunt, he was a frequent, almost a daily, visitor to the big house in Deanery Street, Park Lane, where the Morrices entertained largely and dispensed lavish hospitality.

Croxton’s voice was very cold, as he replied to the other’s suggestion. “Those are the sort of things one does not permit oneself to speculate about, much less to discuss.”

For a second an angry gleam showed in the light blue eyes of Brookes. Not troubled with very refined feelings himself, he thought it was rank hypocrisy on the part of Richard to refuse to talk to a man of his own age about prospects upon which he must often have meditated. But the angry gleam passed away quickly. Archie Brookes was a very self-contained young man. He seldom allowed his temper to get the better of him, and he never indulged in sarcastic remarks.

“Ah, you’ve got a very wise head upon your shoulders, Dick,” he said in a genial tone, and accentuating his air of good-fellowship by the unfamiliar use of the Christian name. “You’ll never let your tongue give you away. But I am sure it will be as I say. Uncle Rupert thinks the world of you, and he has no near relative of his own. What more natural than that you should succeed?”

To his emphatic reiteration of his previous remarks, Richard made no reply. While always perfectly civil to this elegant-mannered young man for whom he felt a vague dislike, he never encouraged intimacy. He was just a little resentful that he had been addressed as “Dick.” Nothing in the world would have induced him to accost the other as “Archie,” although they met nearly every day, and the one was the favourite nephew of the mistress of the house, and the other was as good as the adopted son of the master.

There was a certain element of romance about the introduction of Richard Croxton into the Morrice ménage. The great financier, hard as iron in his business dealings, was in private life a man of the greatest sentiment and sensibility. Some years before he met the lady who was now his wife, he had been desperately in love with a charming girl, who had been one of the fashionable beauties of the day.

The fate of this lovely girl had been a sad and tragic one. With the world at her feet, she had bestowed her affections upon a man utterly unworthy—a rake, a gambler—and a spendthrift, and alienated her friends and her family by marrying him. On her death-bed she had sent for her old lover and confided her only child to his care. Rupert Morrice had accepted the trust, his heart warming to the son, as he grew to know him, not only for his own qualities, but for the sake of the mother whom he had so fondly loved with the passionate ardour of a strong, intense nature.

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.

Sir George, who was a great talker, proceeded with his complimentary remarks.

“Yes, certainly, one of the most charming houses in London, if not actually the most charming. Astonishing how a place takes its atmosphere and tone from the people who run it! Dear old Rupert is one of the best, and his wife is so tactful and refined.” He gave a little involuntary sigh. “Ah, it is wonderful what wealth can do, combined with tact and manners.”

Young Croxton looked at him wonderingly. That sigh seemed very heartfelt. Sir George was reputed to be wealthy, he surely could not be envious of another man’s riches. He could not be envious either of the tact and manners of his hosts, for he was credited with the possession of both in great abundance.

He caught the young man’s puzzled look, and hastened to explain. “I am not a pauper myself, and I can make a bit of a show when I want to—but of course nothing to compare with this. Rupert is wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. He thinks in millions, where we little men think only in thousands.”

Richard thought he understood. Sir George’s habits were pretty well-known. He betted on every race; cards and all forms of gambling had for him a fatal allurement. With such weaknesses, a rich man might often find himself temporarily poor.

“You are a lucky young fellow, my dear Richard, to have been brought up under the careful guidance of such a wise mentor as Rupert Morrice. The man is sound to the core; no weaknesses, no failings. He has told me that he has never touched a card in his life, nor made a bet. And yet, withal, he is not a bit of a Puritan.”

Richard was quite aware of the fact that he was a very lucky person; that, thanks perhaps mostly to that old love-affair, he had won the favour of the wealthy financier. But he was not over-pleased to have the fact rubbed into him so very persistently by this smooth-mannered man of the world, whose attitude towards himself, he fancied, always showed a trace of bland superiority.

He wished that he could get away from the too close proximity of the uncle and nephew, and was meditating how best to accomplish his object, when Providence intervened in the shape of Rosabelle Sheldon, who fluttered up to them.

She was a very charming person, this good-looking girl over whose fair head some twenty-two summers had passed. Her blue eyes looked at you with a full unwavering glance that told you there was no meanness or pettiness in her composition, that she was open and frank. She had a fine figure, a splendid complexion, an exquisite mouth, which, when she smiled, revealed perfect teeth. She was a merry-hearted girl, fond of dancing, fond of sport, loving an outdoor life, and of a most equable temper. But sunny as was her normal disposition, she was capable of grave moods when occasion called them forth, and could be very serious when she was deeply moved.

“I am dying for an ice. Please take me and get me one, Dick, that is if I am not interrupting an important conversation,” she said, addressing the young man.

Sir George regarded her with that benign smile of his which, when he bestowed it upon women, suggested a subtle flattery and appreciation of their charm.

“You’ve been enjoying yourself very much, I can see, my dear Rosabelle, from the happy light on your expressive face. But I wager you will enjoy yourself more at Mürren, delightful as this evening has been, and is.”

The girl laughed gaily. “Oh, Sir George, how well you understand me. I enjoy nearly everything, you know; I am made that way. But above all things, I am an out-of-door girl, and I prefer to take my pleasures in the open air when possible.”

She went away on Richard’s arm, leaving uncle and nephew standing together side by side.

“Two types of people born with silver spoons in their mouths,” remarked the elder man in his smooth, even voice. “She is the apple of old Rupert’s eyes, and young Croxton is as dear to him as a son. They will ultimately get the millions the old man has piled up. And unless I am very much mistaken, there is already a pretty good understanding between the young couple, and the millions will be united.”

The nephew had not spoken up to the present. Truth to tell, when Sir George was there with his ceaseless flow of urbane small talk, it was not very easy for another person to get a hearing, but now he found voice.