The Doings of Raffles Haw: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

THE TENANT OF THE NEW HALL.

The snow had ceased to fall, but for a week a hard frost had held the
country 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 long
undulating landscape the red brick houses peeped out warmly against the
spotless background, and the lines of grey smoke streamed straight up
into the windless air. The sky was of the lightest palest blue, and the
morning sun, shining through the distant fog-wreaths of Birmingham,
struck a subdued glow from the broad-spread snow fields which might
have gladdened the eyes of an artist.

It did gladden the heart of one who viewed it that morning from the
summit of the gently-curving Tamfield Hill Robert McIntyre stood with
his elbows upon a gate-rail, his Tam-o'-Shanter hat over his eyes, and a
short briar-root pipe in his mouth, looking slowly about him, with the
absorbed air of one who breathes his fill of Nature. Beneath him to the
north lay the village of Tamfield, red walls, grey roofs, and a
scattered bristle of dark trees, with his own little Elmdene nestling
back from the broad, white winding Birmingham Road. At the other
side, as he slowly faced round, lay a vast stone building, white and
clear-cut, fresh from the builders' hands. A great tower shot up from
one corner of it, and a hundred windows twinkled ruddily in the
light of the morning sun. A little distance from it stood a second
small square low-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 vast structure stood within its own grounds, enclosed by a
stately park wall, and surrounded by what would in time be an extensive
plantation of fir-trees. By the lodge gates a vast pile of _debris_,
with lines of sheds for workmen, and huge heaps of planks from
scaffoldings, all proclaimed that the work had only just been brought to
an end.

Robert McIntyre looked down with curious eyes at the broad-spread
building. It had long been a mystery and a subject of gossip for the
whole country side. Hardly a year had elapsed since the rumour had
first gone about that a millionaire had bought a tract of land,
and that it was his intention to build a country seat upon it. Since
then the work had been pushed on night and day, until now it was
finished to the last detail in a shorter time than it takes to build
many a six-roomed cottage. Every morning two long special trains had
arrived from Birmingham, carrying down a great army of labourers, who
were relieved in the evening by a fresh gang, who carried on their task
under the rays of twelve enormous electric lights. The number of
workmen appeared to be only limited by the space into which they could
be fitted. Great lines of waggons conveyed the white Portland stone
from the depot by the station. Hundreds of busy toilers handed it over,
shaped and squared, to the actual masons, who swung it up with steam
cranes on to the growing walls, where it was instantly fitted and
mortared by their companions. Day by day the house shot higher, while
pillar and cornice and carving seemed to bud out from it as if by magic.
Nor was the work confined to the main building. A large separate
structure sprang up at the same time, and there came gangs of pale-faced
men from London with much extraordinary machinery, vast cylinders,
wheels and wires, which they fitted up in this outlying building.
The great chimney which rose from the centre of it, combined with these
strange furnishings, seemed to mean that it was reserved as a factory or
place of business, for it was rumoured that this rich man's hobby was
the same as a poor man's necessity, and that he was fond of working with
his own hands amid chemicals and furnaces. Scarce, too, was the second
storey begun ere the wood-workers and plumbers and furnishers were busy
beneath, carrying out a thousand strange and costly schemes for the
greater comfort and convenience of the owner. Singular stories were
told all round the country, and even in Birmingham itself, of the
extraordinary luxury and the absolute disregard for money which marked
all these arrangements. No sum appeared to be too great to spend upon
the smallest detail which might do away with or lessen any of the petty
inconveniences of life. Waggons and waggons of the richest furniture
had passed through the village between lines of staring villagers.
Costly skins, glossy carpets, rich rugs, ivory, and ebony, and metal;
every glimpse into these storehouses of treasure had given rise to some
new legend. And finally, when all had been arranged, there had come a
staff of forty servants, who heralded the approach of the owner,
Mr. Raffles Haw himself.

It was no wonder, then, that it was with considerable curiosity that
Robert McIntyre looked down at the great house, and marked the smoking
chimneys, the curtained windows, and the other signs which showed that
its tenant had arrived. A vast area of greenhouses gleamed like a lake
on the further side, and beyond were the long lines of stables and
outhouses. Fifty horses had passed through Tamfield the week before, so
that, large as were the preparations, they were not more than would be
needed. Who and what could this man be who spent his money with so
lavish a hand? His name was unknown. Birmingham was as ignorant as
Tamfield as to his origin or the sources of his wealth. Robert McIntyre
brooded 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 and
striding up the winding road. A few minutes brought him near enough to
show a familiar face looking over the stiff collar and from under the
soft black hat of an English clergyman.

"Good-morning, Mr. Spurling."

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

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

"Have you heard from Hector?"

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

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

"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,
as far 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 Arabian Nights."

"And the man? What is he like?"

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

The clergyman's eyes sparkled with emotion, and he blew his nose loudly
in 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
him if I might call. I spoke to him of the parish and its needs, of my
long struggle to restore the south side of the church, and of our
efforts to help my poor parishioners during this hard weather.
While I spoke he said not a word, but sat with a vacant face, as though
he were not listening to me. When I had finished he took up his pen.
'How much will it take to do the church?' he asked. 'A thousand
pounds,' I answered; 'but we have already raised three hundred among
ourselves. The Squire has very handsomely given fifty pounds.' 'Well,'
said he, 'how about the poor folk? How many families are there?'
'About three hundred,' I answered. '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 you can get a very fair pair of blankets for
two pounds. That would make five pounds per family, and seven hundred
for the church.' He dipped his pen in the ink, and, as I am a living
man, Robert, he wrote me a cheque then and there for two thousand two
hundred pounds. I don't know what I said; I felt like a fool; I could
not stammer out words with which to thank him. All my troubles have
been taken from my shoulders in an instant, 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 was
I who was doing the favour and he who was the beggar. I thought of that
passage about making the heart of the widow sing for joy. He made my
heart sing for joy, I can tell you. Are you coming up to the Vicarage?"

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

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

Robert McIntyre had converted a large bare room in the upper storey of
Elmdene into a studio, and thither he retreated after lunch. It was as
well that he should have some little den of his own, for his father
would talk of little save of his ledgers and accounts, while Laura had
become peevish and querulous since the one tie which held her to
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, and
two large windows gave him the needful light. His easel stood in
the centre, with the great canvas balanced across it, while against the
walls there leaned his two last attempts, "The Murder of Thomas of
Canterbury" and "The Signing of Magna Charta." Robert had a weakness
for large subjects and broad effects. If his ambition was greater than
his skill, he had still all the love of his art and the patience under
discouragement which are the stuff out of which successful painters are
made. Twice his brace of pictures had journeyed to town, and twice
they had come back to him, until the finely gilded frames which had made
such a call upon his purse began to show signs of these varied
adventures. Yet, in spite of their depressing company, Robert turned
to his fresh work with all the enthusiasm which a conviction of ultimate
success can inspire.

But he could not work that afternoon.

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

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

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

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

"It is quite impossible, papa," his daughter answered coldly. "It is
not my 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 may be right or you may be wrong, but I certainly shall not give Mr.
Raffles Haw or anyone else the money without Hector's express command."

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

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

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

Robert was lounging slowly along his favourite walk which curled over
the hill, with his mind turning from the Roman invasion to the
mysterious millionaire, when his eyes fell upon a tall, lean man
in front of him, who, with a pipe between his lips, was endeavouring to
light a match under cover of his cap. The man was clad in a rough
pea-jacket, and bore traces of smoke and grime upon his face and hands.
Yet there is a Freemasonry among smokers which overrides every social
difference, 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
to it. He had a pale, thin face, a short straggling beard, and a very
sharp and curving nose, with decision and character in the straight
thick eyebrows which almost met on either side of it. Clearly a
superior kind of workman, and possibly one of those who had been
employed in the construction of the new house. Here was a chance of
getting some first-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 the
talk 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 that
he gave little sidelong suspicious glances at him out of his keen grey
eyes. Yet, if he were so careful and discreet there was the more reason
to think that there was information to be extracted, if he could but
find 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 is
very gorgeous and splendid, but really for my own part I would rather
live 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 I
should like to sell my pictures. One must make a living. But beyond
that I ask nothing. I dare say that I, a poor artist, or you, a man who
work for your bread, have more happiness out of life than the owner of
that great palace,"

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

"Art," said Robert, warming to the subject, "is her own reward. What
mere bodily indulgence is there which money could buy which can give
that deep thrill of satisfaction which comes on the man who has
conceived something new, something beautiful, and the daily delight as
he sees it grow under his hand, until it stands before him a completed
whole? With my art and without wealth I am happy. Without my art I
should have a void which no money could fill. But I really don't know
why I should say all this to you."

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

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

It was a somewhat extraordinary request, but Robert rather prided
himself upon his Bohemianism, and upon his happy facility for making
friends with all sorts and conditions of men. He readily exchanged a
cordial grip with his chance acquaintance.

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

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

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

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

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