“And I had no claim upon you whatever!” the sick man wound up, half-breathless. “If you had cut me dead, after my Oxford disgrace, it would only have been exactly what I deserved. That’s what makes it so odd, your doing all this for me. I can’t understand it, I’m damned if I can!”
Matravers stood over him, a silent, unresponsive figure, seeking only to make his escape. With difficulty he broke in upon the torrent of words.
“Will you do me the favour, Mr. Drage,” he begged earnestly, “of saying no more about it. Any man of leisure would have done for you what I have done. If you really wish to afford me a considerable happiness, you can do so.”
“Anything in this world!” John Drage declared vehemently.
Matravers thought for a moment. The proposition which he was about to make had been in his mind from the first. The time had come now to put it into words.
“You must not be offended at what I am going to say,” he began gently. “I am a rich man, and I have taken a great fancy to your boy. I have no children of my own; in fact, I am quite alone in the world. If you will allow me, I should like to undertake Freddy’s education.”
A light broke across the man’s coarse face, momentarily transfiguring it. He raised himself on his elbow, and gazed at his visitor with eager scrutiny. Then he drew a deep sigh, and there were tears in his eyes. He did not say a word. Matravers continued.
“It will be a great pleasure for me,” he said quietly. “What I propose is to invest a thousand pounds for that purpose in Freddy’s name. In fact, I have taken the liberty of already doing it. The papers are here.”
Matravers laid an envelope on the little table between them. Then he rose up.