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.”