The Doings of Raffles Haw Page 2

  CHAPTER II. THE TENANT OF THE NEW HALL.

  The snow had ceased to fall, but for a week a hard frost had held thecountry side in its iron grip. The roads rang under the horses' hoofs,and every wayside ditch and runlet was a street of ice. Over the longundulating landscape the red brick houses peeped out warmly against thespotless background, and the lines of grey smoke streamed straight upinto the windless air. The sky was of the lightest palest blue, andthe morning sun, shining through the distant fog-wreaths of Birmingham,struck a subdued glow from the broad-spread snow fields which might havegladdened the eyes of an artist.

  It did gladden the heart of one who viewed it that morning from thesummit of the gently-curving Tamfield Hill Robert McIntyre stood withhis elbows upon a gate-rail, his Tam-o'-Shanter hat over his eyes, anda short briar-root pipe in his mouth, looking slowly about him, with theabsorbed air of one who breathes his fill of Nature. Beneath him tothe north lay the village of Tamfield, red walls, grey roofs, and ascattered bristle of dark trees, with his own little Elmdene nestlingback from the broad, white winding Birmingham Road. At the otherside, as he slowly faced round, lay a vast stone building, white andclear-cut, fresh from the builders' hands. A great tower shot up fromone corner of it, and a hundred windows twinkled ruddily in the light ofthe morning sun. A little distance from it stood a second small squarelow-lying structure, with a tall chimney rising from the midst of it,rolling out a long plume of smoke into the frosty air. The whole vaststructure stood within its own grounds, enclosed by a stately parkwall, and surrounded by what would in time be an extensive plantationof fir-trees. By the lodge gates a vast pile of _debris_, with linesof sheds for workmen, and huge heaps of planks from scaffoldings, allproclaimed that the work had only just been brought to an end.

  Robert McIntyre looked down with curious eyes at the broad-spreadbuilding. It had long been a mystery and a subject of gossip for thewhole country side. Hardly a year had elapsed since the rumour had firstgone about that a millionaire had bought a tract of land, and that itwas his intention to build a country seat upon it. Since then the workhad been pushed on night and day, until now it was finished to thelast detail in a shorter time than it takes to build many a six-roomedcottage. Every morning two long special trains had arrived fromBirmingham, carrying down a great army of labourers, who were relievedin the evening by a fresh gang, who carried on their task under the raysof twelve enormous electric lights. The number of workmen appeared to beonly limited by the space into which they could be fitted. Great linesof waggons conveyed the white Portland stone from the depot by thestation. Hundreds of busy toilers handed it over, shaped and squared, tothe actual masons, who swung it up with steam cranes on to the growingwalls, where it was instantly fitted and mortared by their companions.Day by day the house shot higher, while pillar and cornice and carvingseemed to bud out from it as if by magic. Nor was the work confinedto the main building. A large separate structure sprang up at the sametime, and there came gangs of pale-faced men from London with muchextraordinary machinery, vast cylinders, wheels and wires, which theyfitted up in this outlying building. The great chimney which rose fromthe centre of it, combined with these strange furnishings, seemed tomean that it was reserved as a factory or place of business, for itwas rumoured that this rich man's hobby was the same as a poor man'snecessity, and that he was fond of working with his own hands amidchemicals and furnaces. Scarce, too, was the second storey begun ere thewood-workers and plumbers and furnishers were busy beneath, carryingout a thousand strange and costly schemes for the greater comfort andconvenience of the owner. Singular stories were told all round thecountry, and even in Birmingham itself, of the extraordinary luxury andthe absolute disregard for money which marked all these arrangements.No sum appeared to be too great to spend upon the smallest detail whichmight do away with or lessen any of the petty inconveniences of life.Waggons and waggons of the richest furniture had passed through thevillage between lines of staring villagers. Costly skins, glossycarpets, rich rugs, ivory, and ebony, and metal; every glimpse intothese storehouses of treasure had given rise to some new legend. Andfinally, when all had been arranged, there had come a staff of fortyservants, who heralded the approach of the owner, Mr. Raffles Hawhimself.

  It was no wonder, then, that it was with considerable curiosity thatRobert McIntyre looked down at the great house, and marked the smokingchimneys, the curtained windows, and the other signs which showed thatits tenant had arrived. A vast area of greenhouses gleamed like a lakeon the further side, and beyond were the long lines of stables andouthouses. Fifty horses had passed through Tamfield the week before, sothat, large as were the preparations, they were not more than wouldbe needed. Who and what could this man be who spent his money withso lavish a hand? His name was unknown. Birmingham was as ignorant asTamfield as to his origin or the sources of his wealth. Robert McIntyrebrooded languidly over the problem as he leaned against the gate,puffing his blue clouds of bird's-eye into the crisp, still air.

  Suddenly his eye caught a dark figure emerging from the Avenue gates andstriding up the winding road. A few minutes brought him near enough toshow a familiar face looking over the stiff collar and from under thesoft black hat of an English clergyman.

  "Good-morning, Mr. Spurling."

  "Ah, good-morning, Robert. How are you? Are you coming my way? Howslippery the roads are!"

  His round, kindly face was beaming with good nature, and he took littlejumps as he walked, like a man who can hardly contain himself forpleasure.

  "Have you heard from Hector?"

  "Oh, yes. He went off all right last Wednesday from Spithead, and hewill write from Madeira. But you generally have later news at Elmdenethan I have."

  "I don't know whether Laura has heard. Have you been up to see the newcomer?"

  "Yes; I have just left him."

  "Is he a married man--this Mr. Raffles Haw?"

  "No, he is a bachelor. He does not seem to have any relations either, asfar as I could learn. He lives alone, amid his huge staff of servants.It is a most remarkable establishment. It made me think of the ArabianNights."

  "And the man? What is he like?"

  "He is an angel--a positive angel. I never heard or read of suchkindness in my life. He has made me a happy man."

  The clergyman's eyes sparkled with emotion, and he blew his nose loudlyin his big red handkerchief.

  Robert McIntyre looked at him in surprise.

  "I am delighted to hear it," he said. "May I ask what he has done?"

  "I went up to him by appointment this morning. I had written asking himif I might call. I spoke to him of the parish and its needs, of my longstruggle to restore the south side of the church, and of our effortsto help my poor parishioners during this hard weather. While I spokehe said not a word, but sat with a vacant face, as though he were notlistening to me. When I had finished he took up his pen. 'How much willit take to do the church?' he asked. 'A thousand pounds,' I answered;'but we have already raised three hundred among ourselves. The Squirehas very handsomely given fifty pounds.' 'Well,' said he, 'how aboutthe poor folk? How many families are there?' 'About three hundred,' Ianswered. 'And coals, I believe, are at about a pound a ton', said he.'Three tons ought to see them through the rest of the winter. Then youcan get a very fair pair of blankets for two pounds. That would makefive pounds per family, and seven hundred for the church.' He dipped hispen in the ink, and, as I am a living man, Robert, he wrote me a chequethen and there for two thousand two hundred pounds. I don't know whatI said; I felt like a fool; I could not stammer out words with whichto thank him. All my troubles have been taken from my shoulders in aninstant, and indeed, Robert, I can hardly realise it."

  "He must be a most charitable man."

  "Extraordinarily so. And so unpretending. One would think that it wasI who was doing the favour and he who was the beggar. I thought of thatpassage about making the heart of the widow sing for joy. He made myheart sing for joy, I can tell you. Are you coming up to the Vicarage?"

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; "No, thank you, Mr. Spurling. I must go home and get to work on my newpicture. It's a five-foot canvas--the landing of the Romans in Kent. Imust have another try for the Academy. Good-morning."

  He raised his hat and continued down the road, while the vicar turnedoff into the path which led to his home.

  Robert McIntyre had converted a large bare room in the upper storey ofElmdene into a studio, and thither he retreated after lunch. It wasas well that he should have some little den of his own, for his fatherwould talk of little save of his ledgers and accounts, while Laurahad become peevish and querulous since the one tie which held herto Tamfield had been removed. The chamber was a bare and bleak one,un-papered and un-carpeted, but a good fire sparkled in the grate, andtwo large windows gave him the needful light. His easel stood in thecentre, with the great canvas balanced across it, while against thewalls there leaned his two last attempts, "The Murder of Thomas ofCanterbury" and "The Signing of Magna Charta." Robert had a weakness forlarge subjects and broad effects. If his ambition was greater thanhis skill, he had still all the love of his art and the patience underdiscouragement which are the stuff out of which successful painters aremade. Twice his brace of pictures had journeyed to town, and twice theyhad come back to him, until the finely gilded frames which had made sucha call upon his purse began to show signs of these varied adventures.Yet, in spite of their depressing company, Robert turned to his freshwork with all the enthusiasm which a conviction of ultimate success caninspire.

  But he could not work that afternoon.

  In vain he dashed in his background and outlined the long curves of theRoman galleys. Do what he would, his mind would still wander from hiswork to dwell upon his conversation with the vicar in the morning. Hisimagination was fascinated by the idea of this strange man living aloneamid a crowd, and yet wielding such a power that with one dash of hispen he could change sorrow into joy, and transform the condition ofa whole parish. The incident of the fifty-pound note came back to hismind. It must surely have been Raffles Haw with whom Hector Spurlinghad come in contact. There could not be two men in one parish to whom solarge a sum was of so small an account as to be thrown to a bystander inreturn for a trifling piece of assistance. Of course, it must have beenRaffles Haw. And his sister had the note, with instructions to returnit to the owner, could he be found. He threw aside his palette, anddescending into the sitting-room he told Laura and his father of hismorning's interview with the vicar, and of his conviction that this wasthe man of whom Hector was in quest.

  "Tut! Tut!" said old McIntyre. "How is this, Laura? I knew nothing ofthis. What do women know of money or of business? Hand the note over tome and I shall relieve you of all responsibility. I will take everythingupon myself."

  "I cannot possibly, papa," said Laura, with decision. "I should notthink of parting with it."

  "What is the world coming to?" cried the old man, with his thin handsheld up in protest. "You grow more undutiful every day, Laura. Thismoney would be of use to me--of use, you understand. It may be thecorner-stone of the vast business which I shall re-construct. I will useit, Laura, and I will pay something--four, shall we say, or evenfour and a-half--and you may have it back on any day. And I will givesecurity--the security of my--well, of my word of honour."

  "It is quite impossible, papa," his daughter answered coldly. "It is notmy money. Hector asked me to be his banker. Those were his very words.It is not in my power to lend it. As to what you say, Robert, you maybe right or you may be wrong, but I certainly shall not give Mr. RafflesHaw or anyone else the money without Hector's express command."

  "You are very right about not giving it to Mr. Raffles Haw," cried oldMcIntyre, with many nods of approbation. "I should certainly not let itgo out of the family."

  "Well, I thought that I would tell you."

  Robert picked up his Tam-o'-Shanter and strolled out to avoid thediscussion between his father and sister, which he saw was about tobe renewed. His artistic nature revolted at these petty and sordiddisputes, and he turned to the crisp air and the broad landscape tosoothe his ruffled feelings. Avarice had no place among his failings,and his father's perpetual chatter about money inspired him with apositive loathing and disgust for the subject.

  Robert was lounging slowly along his favourite walk which curledover the hill, with his mind turning from the Roman invasion to themysterious millionaire, when his eyes fell upon a tall, lean man infront of him, who, with a pipe between his lips, was endeavouringto light a match under cover of his cap. The man was clad in a roughpea-jacket, and bore traces of smoke and grime upon his face and hands.Yet there is a Freemasonry among smokers which overrides every socialdifference, so Robert stopped and held out his case of fusees.

  "A light?" said he.

  "Thank you." The man picked out a fusee, struck it, and bent his head toit. He had a pale, thin face, a short straggling beard, and a very sharpand curving nose, with decision and character in the straight thickeyebrows which almost met on either side of it. Clearly a superiorkind of workman, and possibly one of those who had been employed inthe construction of the new house. Here was a chance of getting somefirst-hand information on the question which had aroused his curiosity.Robert waited until he had lit his pipe, and then walked on beside him.

  "Are you going in the direction of the new Hall?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  The man's voice was cold, and his manner reserved.

  "Perhaps you were engaged in the building of it?"

  "Yes, I had a hand in it."

  "They say that it is a wonderful place inside. It has been quite thetalk of the district. Is it as rich as they say?"

  "I am sure I don't know. I have not heard what they say."

  His attitude was certainly not encouraging, and it seemed to Robert thathe gave little sidelong suspicious glances at him out of his keen greyeyes. Yet, if he were so careful and discreet there was the more reasonto think that there was information to be extracted, if he could butfind a way to it.

  "Ah, there it lies!" he remarked, as they topped the brow of the hill,and looked down once more at the great building. "Well, no doubt it isvery gorgeous and splendid, but really for my own part I would ratherlive in my own little box down yonder in the village."

  The workman puffed gravely at his pipe.

  "You are no great admirer of wealth, then?" he said.

  "Not I. I should not care to be a penny richer than I am. Of course Ishould like to sell my pictures. One must make a living. But beyond thatI ask nothing. I dare say that I, a poor artist, or you, a man who workfor your bread, have more happiness out of life than the owner of thatgreat palace."

  "Indeed, I think that it is more than likely," the other answered, in amuch more conciliatory voice.

  "Art," said Robert, warming to the subject, "is her own reward. Whatmere bodily indulgence is there which money could buy which cangive that deep thrill of satisfaction which comes on the man who hasconceived something new, something beautiful, and the daily delight ashe sees it grow under his hand, until it stands before him a completedwhole? With my art and without wealth I am happy. Without my art Ishould have a void which no money could fill. But I really don't knowwhy I should say all this to you."

  The workman had stopped, and was staring at him earnestly with a look ofthe deepest interest upon his smoke-darkened features.

  "I am very glad to hear what you say," said he. "It is a pleasure toknow that the worship of gold is not quite universal, and that there areat least some who can rise above it. Would you mind my shaking you bythe hand?"

  It was a somewhat extraordinary request, but Robert rather pridedhimself upon his Bohemianism, and upon his happy facility for makingfriends with all sorts and conditions of men. He readily exchanged acordial grip with his chance acquaintance.

  "You expressed some curiosity as to this house. I know the groundspretty well, and might perhaps show you one or two little things whichwould interest you. Here are the gates. Will you come in with me?"

  Here was,
indeed, a chance. Robert eagerly assented, and walked up thewinding drive amid the growing fir-trees. When he found his uncouthguide, however, marching straight across the broad, gravel square to themain entrance, he felt that he had placed himself in a false position.

  "Surely not through the front door," he whispered, plucking hiscompanion by the sleeve. "Perhaps Mr. Raffles Haw might not like it."

  "I don't think there will be any difficulty," said the other, with aquiet smile. "My name is Raffles Haw."