I knew him better, I understood his apparent unconcern of any suggestion counter to his own. He thought slowly and he spoke seldom, but when he had once spoken the matter, so far as he was concerned, was done with. Lady Angela apparently was used to him, for she rose at once. She did not shake hands, but she nodded to me pleasantly. Colonel Ray handed her into the wagonette, and I heard the quicker throbbing of the engine as it glided off into the darkness.
It was several minutes before he returned. I began to wonder whether he had changed his mind, and returned to Rowchester with Lady Angela. Then the door handle suddenly turned, and he stepped in. His hair was tossed with the wind, his shoes were wet and covered with mud, and he was breathing rather fast, as though he had been running. I looked at him inquiringly. He offered me no explanation. But on his way to the chair, which he presently drew up to the fire, he paused for a full minute by the window, and shading the carriage lamp which he still carried, with his hand, he looked steadily out into the darkness. A thought struck me.
"You have seen him!" I exclaimed.
He set down the lamp upon the table, and deliberately seated himself.
"Seen whom?" he asked, producing a pipe and tobacco.
"The man who looked in—whose face I saw at the window."
He struck a match and lit his pipe.
"I have seen no one," he answered quietly. "The face was probably a fancy of yours. I should recommend you to forget it."
I looked down at his marsh-stained shoes. One foot was wet to the ankle, and a thin strip of green seaweed had wound itself around his trousers. To any other man I should have had more to say. Yet even in those first few hours of our acquaintance I had become, like all the others, to some extent the servant of his will, spoken or unspoken. So I held my peace and looked away into the fire. I felt he had something to say to me, and I waited.
He moved his head slowly towards the bookcase.
"Those books," he asked, "are yours?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Your name then is Guy Ducaine?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever know your father?"
It was a singular question. I looked at him quickly. His face was sphinxlike.
"No. Why do you ask? Did you?"
He ignored me absolutely for several moments. His whole attention seemed fixed upon the curling wreath of blue smoke which hung between us.
"He died, I suppose," he continued, "when you were about twelve years old."
I nodded.
"My uncle," I said, "gave me a holiday and a sovereign to spend. He told me that a great piece of good fortune had happened to me."
Colonel Ray smiled grimly.
"That was like old Stephen Ducaine," he remarked. "He died himself a few years afterwards."
"Three years."
"He left you ten thousand pounds. What have you done with it?"
"Mr. Heathcote, of Heathcote, Sons, and Vyse, was my solicitor."
"Well?"
I remembered that he had been away from England for several years.
"The firm failed," I told him, "for a quarter of a million. Mr. Heathcote shot himself. I am told that there is a probable dividend of sixpence-half-penny in the pound to come some day."
Colonel Ray smoked on in silence. This was evidently news to him.
"Awkward for you," he remarked at last.
I laughed a little bitterly. I knew quite well that he was expecting me to continue, and I did so.
"I sold my things at Magdalen, and paid my debts. I was promised two pupils if I would take a house somewhere on this coast. I took one and got ready for them with my last few pounds. Their father died suddenly—and they did not come. I got rid of the house, at a sacrifice, and came to this cottage."
"You took your degree?"
"With honours."
He blew out more smoke.
"You are young," he said, "a gentleman by birth, and I should imagine a moderate athlete. You have an exceptional degree, and I presume a fair knowledge of the world. Yet you appear to be deliberately settling down here to starve."
"I can assure you," I answered, "that the deliberation is lacking. I have no fear of anything of the sort. I expect to get some pupils in the neighbourhood, and also some literary work. For the moment I am a little hard up, and I thought perhaps that I might make a few shillings by a lecture."
"Of the proceeds of which," he remarked, with a dry little smile, "I appear to have robbed you."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"I hoped for little but a meal or two from it," I answered. "The only loss is to my self-respect. I owe to charity what I might have earned."
He took his pipe from his mouth and looked at me with a thin derisive smile.
"You talk," he said, "like a very young man. If you had knocked about in all corners of the world as I have you would have learnt a greater lesson from a greater book. When a man meets brother man in the wilds, who talks of charity? They divide goods and pass on. Even the savages do this."
"These," I ventured to remark, "are not the wilds."
He sighed and replaced his pipe in his mouth.
"You are young, very young," he remarked, thoughtfully. "You have that beastly hothouse education, big ideas on thin stalks, orchids instead of roses, the stove instead of the sun. The wilds are everywhere—on the Thames Embankment, even in this God-forsaken corner of the world. The wilds are wherever men meet men."
I was silent. Who was I to argue with Ray, whose fame was in every one's mouth—soldier, traveller, and diplomatist? For many years he had been living hand and glove with life and death. There were many who spoke well of him, and many ill—many to whom he was a hero, many to whom his very name was like poison. But he was emphatically not a man to contradict. In my little cottage he seemed like a giant, six-foot-two, broad, and swart with the burning fire of tropical suns. He seemed to fill the place, to dominate me and my paltry surroundings, even as in later years I saw him, the master spirit in a great assembly, eagle-eyed, strenuous, omnipotent. There was something about him which made other men seem like pygmies. There was force in the stern self-repression of his speech, in the curve of his lips, the clear lightning of his eyes.
My silence did not seem altogether to satisfy him. I felt his eyes challenge mine, and I was forced to meet his darkly questioning gaze.
"Come," he said, "I trust that I have said enough. You have buried the thought of that hateful word."
"You have stricken it mortally," I answered, "but I can scarcely promise so speedy a funeral.
