It was late that night that a startled knocking came at the door of
Elmdene. Laura had been in her room all day, and Robert was moodily
smoking his pipe by the fire, when this harsh and sudden summons
broke in upon his thoughts. There in the porch was Jones, the stout
head-butler of the Hall, hatless, scared, with the raindrops shining in
the lamplight upon his smooth, bald head.
“If you please, Mr. McIntyre, sir, would it trouble you to step up to
the Hall?” he cried. “We are all frightened, sir, about master.”
Robert caught up his hat and started at a run, the frightened butler
trotting heavily beside him. It had been a day of excitement and
disaster. The young artist's heart was heavy within him, and the shadow
of some crowning trouble seemed to have fallen upon his soul.
“What is the matter with your master, then?” he asked, as he slowed down
into a walk.
“We don't know, sir; but we can't get an answer when we knock at the
laboratory door. Yet he's there, for it's locked on the inside. It has
given us all a scare, sir, that, and his goin's-on during the day.”
“His goings-on?”
“Yes, sir; for he came back this morning like a man demented, a-talkin'
to himself, and with his eyes starin' so that it was dreadful to look at
the poor dear gentleman. Then he walked about the passages a long time,
and he wouldn't so much as look at his luncheon, but he went into the
museum, and gathered all his jewels and things, and carried them into
the laboratory. We don't know what he's done since then, sir, but his
furnace has been a-roarin', and his big chimney spoutin' smoke like a
Birmingham factory. When night came we could see his figure against the
light, a-workin' and a-heavin' like a man possessed. No dinner would he
have, but work, and work, and work. Now it's all quiet, and the furnace
cold, and no smoke from above, but we can't get no answer from him, sir,
so we are scared, and Miller has gone for the police, and I came away
for you.”
They reached the Hall as the butler finished his explanation, and
there outside the laboratory door stood the little knot of footmen and
ostlers, while the village policeman, who had just arrived, was holding
his bull's-eye to the keyhole, and endeavouring to peep through.
“The key is half-turned,” he said. “I can't see nothing except just the
light.”
“Here's Mr. McIntyre,” cried half-a-dozen voices, as Robert came
forward.
“We'll have to beat the door in, sir,” said the policeman. “We can't get
any sort of answer, and there's something wrong.”
Twice and thrice they threw their united weights against it until at
last with a sharp snap the lock broke, and they crowded into the narrow
passage. The inner door was ajar, and the laboratory lay before them.
In the centre was an enormous heap of fluffy grey ash, reaching up
half-way to the ceiling. Beside it was another heap, much smaller, of
some brilliant scintillating dust, which shimmered brightly in the rays
of the electric light. All round was a bewildering chaos of broken jars,
shattered bottles, cracked machinery, and tangled wires, all bent and
draggled. And there in the midst of this universal ruin, leaning back in
his chair with his hands clasped upon his lap, and the easy pose of one
who rests after hard work safely carried through, sat Raffles Haw, the
master of the house, and the richest of mankind, with the pallor of
death upon his face. So easily he sat and so naturally, with such a
serene expression upon his features, that it was not until they raised
him, and touched his cold and rigid limbs, that they could realise that
he had indeed passed away.
Reverently and slowly they bore him to his room, for he was beloved by
all who had served him. Robert alone lingered with the policeman in the
laboratory. Like a man in a dream he wandered about, marvelling at the
universal destruction. A large broad-headed hammer lay upon the
ground, and with this Haw had apparently set himself to destroy all
his apparatus, having first used his electrical machines to reduce
to protyle all the stock of gold which he had accumulated. The
treasure-room which had so dazzled Robert consisted now of merely four
bare walls, while the gleaming dust upon the floor proclaimed the fate
of that magnificent collection of gems which had alone amounted to a
royal fortune. Of all the machinery no single piece remained intact,
and even the glass table was shattered into three pieces. Strenuously
earnest must have been the work which Raffles Haw had done that day.
And suddenly Robert thought of the secret which had been treasured in
the casket within the iron-clamped box. It was to tell him the one last
essential link which would make his knowledge of the process complete.
Was it still there? Thrilling all over, he opened the great chest, and
drew out the ivory box. It was locked, but the key was in it. He turned
it and threw open the lid. There was a white slip of paper with his own
name written upon it. With trembling fingers he unfolded it. Was he
the heir to the riches of El Dorado, or was he destined to be a poor
struggling artist? The note was dated that very evening, and ran in this
way:
“MY DEAR ROBERT,--My secret shall never be used again. I cannot
tell you how I thank Heaven that I did not entirely confide it to
you, for I should have been handing over an inheritance of misery
both to yourself and others. For myself I have hardly had a happy
moment since I discovered it. This I could have borne had I been
able to feel that I was doing good, but, alas! the only effect of my
attempts has been to turn workers into idlers, contented men into
greedy parasites, and, worst of all, true, pure women into
deceivers and hypocrites. If this is the effect of my interference
on a small scale, I cannot hope for anything better were I to carry
out the plans which we have so often discussed. The schemes of my
life have all turned to nothing. For myself, you shall never see me
again. I shall go back to the student life from which I emerged.
There, at least, if I can do little good, I can do no harm. It is
my wish that such valuables as remain in the Hall should be sold,
and the proceeds divided amidst all the charities of Birmingham.
I shall leave tonight if I am well enough, but I have been much
troubled all day by a stabbing pain in my side. It is as if wealth
were as bad for health as it is for peace of mind. Good-bye,
Robert, and may you never have as sad a heart as I have to-night.
Yours very truly,
RAFFLES HAW.”
“Was it suicide, sir? Was it suicide?” broke in the policeman as Robert
put the note in his pocket.
“No,” he answered; “I think it was a broken heart.”
And so the wonders of the New Hall were all dismantled, the carvings and
the gold, the books and the pictures, and many a struggling man or woman
who had heard nothing of Raffles Haw during his life had cause to bless
him after his death. The house has been bought by a company now, who
have turned it into a hydropathic establishment, and of all the folk who
frequent it in search of health or of pleasure there are few who know
the strange story which is connected with it.
The blight which Haw's wealth cast around it seemed to last even after
his death. Old McIntyre still raves in the County Lunatic Asylum, and
treasures up old scraps of wood and metal under the impression that they
are all ingots of gold. Robert McIntyre is a moody and irritable man,
for ever pursuing a quest which will always evade him. His art is
forgotten, and he spends his whole small income upon chemical and
electrical appliances, with which he vainly seeks to rediscover that
one hidden link. His sister keeps house for him, a silent and brooding
woman, still queenly and beautiful, but of a bitter, dissatisfied mind.
Of late, however, she has devoted herself to charity, and has been of so
much help to Mr. Spurling's new curate that it is thought that he may
be tempted to secure her assistance for ever. So runs the gossip of the
village, and in small places such gossip is seldom wrong. As to Hector
Spurling, he is still in her Majesty's service, and seems inclined to
abide by his father's wise advice, that he should not think of marrying
until he was a Commander. It is possible that of all who were brought
within the spell of Raffles Haw he was the only one who had occasion to
bless it.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Doings Of Raffles Haw, by Arthur Conan Doyle