Books: The Doings Of Raffles Haw
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Sir Arthur Conan Doyle >> The Doings Of Raffles Haw
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Hurriedly Robert struck a match and lit his lamp. His father's room was
opposite his own, and the door was ajar. He pushed it open and looked
about him. It was empty. The bed had not even been lain upon.
The single chair stood by the window, and there the old man must have
sat since he left them. There was no book, no paper, no means by which
he could have amused himself, nothing but a razor-strop lying on the
window-sill.
A feeling of impending misfortune struck cold to Robert's heart. There
was some ill-meaning in this journey of his father's. He thought of his
brooding of yesterday, his scowling face, his bitter threats.
Yes, there was some mischief underlying it. But perhaps he might even
now be in time to prevent it. There was no use calling Laura. She
could be no help in the matter. He hurriedly threw on his clothes,
muffled himself in his top-coat, and, seizing his hat and stick, he set
off after his father.
As he came out into the village street the wind whirled down it, so that
he had to put his ear and shoulder against it, and push his way forward.
It was better, however, when he turned into the lane. The high bank and
the hedge sheltered him upon one side. The road, however, was deep in
mud, and the rain fell in a steady swish. Not a soul was to be seen,
but he needed to make no inquiries, for he knew whither his father had
gone as certainly as though he had seen him.
The iron side gate of the avenue was half open, and Robert stumbled his
way up the gravelled drive amid the dripping fir-trees. What could his
father's intention be when he reached the Hall? Was it merely that he
wished to spy and prowl, or did he intend to call up the master and
enter into some discussion as to his wrongs? Or was it possible that
some blacker and more sinister design lay beneath his strange doings?
Robert thought suddenly of the razor-strop, and gasped with horror.
What had the old man been doing with that? He quickened his pace to a
run, and hurried on until he found himself at the door of the Hall.
Thank God! all was quiet there. He stood by the big silent door and
listened intently. There was nothing to be heard save the wind and the
rain. Where, then, could his father be? If he wished to enter the Hall
he would not attempt to do so by one of the windows, for had he not been
present when Raffles Haw had shown them the precautions which he had
taken? But then a sudden thought struck Robert. There was one window
which was left unguarded. Haw had been imprudent enough to tell them
so. It was the middle window of the laboratory. If he remembered it so
clearly, of course his father would remember it too. There was the
point of danger.
The moment that he had come round the corner of the building he found
that his surmise had been correct. An electric lamp burned in the
laboratory, and the silver squares of the three large windows stood out
clear and bright in the darkness. The centre one had been thrown open,
and, even as he gazed, Robert saw a dark monkey-like figure spring up on
to the sill, and vanish into the room beyond. For a moment only it
outlined itself against the brilliant light beyond, but in that moment
Robert had space to see that it was indeed his father. On tiptoe he
crossed the intervening space, and peeped in through the open window.
It was a singular spectacle which met his eyes.
There stood upon the glass table some half-dozen large ingots of gold,
which had been made the night before, but which had not been removed to
the treasure-house. On these the old man had thrown himself, as one who
enters into his rightful inheritance. He lay across the table, his arms
clasping the bars of gold, his cheek pressed against them, crooning and
muttering to himself. Under the clear, still light, amid the giant
wheels and strange engines, that one little dark figure clutching and
clinging to the ingots had in it something both weird and piteous.
For five minutes or more Robert stood in the darkness amid the rain,
looking in at this strange sight, while his father hardly moved save to
cuddle closer to the gold, and to pat it with his thin hands.
Robert was still uncertain what he should do, when his eyes wandered
from the central figure and fell on something else which made him give a
little cry of astonishment--a cry which was drowned amid the howling of
the gale.
Raffles Haw was standing in the corner of the room. Where he had come
from Robert could not say, but he was certain that he had not been there
when he first looked in. He stood silent, wrapped in some long, dark
dressing-gown, his arms folded, and a bitter smile upon his pale face.
Old McIntyre seemed to see him at almost the same moment, for he snarled
out an oath, and clutched still closer at his treasure, looking
slantwise at the master of the house with furtive, treacherous eyes.
"And it has really come to this!" said Haw at last, taking a step
forward. "You have actually fallen so low, Mr. McIntyre, as to steal
into my house at night like a common burglar. You knew that this window
was unguarded. I remember telling you as much. But I did not tell you
what other means I had adopted by which I might be warned if knaves made
an entrance. But that you should have come! You!"
The old gunmaker made no attempt to justify himself, but he muttered
some few hoarse words, and continued to cling to the treasure.
"I love your daughter," said Raffles Haw, "and for her sake I will not
expose you. Your hideous and infamous secret shall be safe with me.
No ear shall hear what has happened this night. I will not, as I might,
arouse my servants and send for the police. But you must leave my house
without further words. I have nothing more to say to you. Go as you
have come."
He took a step forward, and held out his hand as if to detach the old
man's grasp from the golden bars. The other thrust his hand into the
breast of his coat, and with a shrill scream of rage flung himself upon
the alchemist. So sudden and so fierce was the movement that Haw had no
time for defence. A bony hand gripped him by the throat, and the blade
of a razor flashed in the air. Fortunately, as it fell, the weapon
struck against one of the many wires which spanned the room, and flying
out of the old man's grasp, tinkled upon the stone floor. But, though
disarmed, he was still dangerous. With a horrible silent energy he
pushed Haw back and back until, coming to a bench, they both fell over
it, McIntyre remaining uppermost. His other hand was on the alchemist's
throat, and it might have fared ill with him had Robert not climbed
through the window and dragged his father off from him. With the aid of
Haw, he pinned the old man down, and passed a long cravat around his
arms. It was terrible to look at him, for his face was convulsed, his
eyes bulging from his head, and his lips white with foam.
Haw leaned against the glass table panting, with his hand to his side.
"You here, Robert?" he gasped. "Is it not horrible? How did you come?"
"I followed him. I heard him go out."
"He would have robbed me. And he would have murdered me. But he is
mad--stark, staring mad!"
There could be no doubt of it. Old McIntyre was sitting up now, and
burst suddenly into a hoarse peal of laughter, rocking himself backwards
and forwards, and looking up at them with little twinkling, cunning
eyes. It was clear to both of them that his mind, weakened by long
brooding over the one idea, had now at last become that of a monomaniac.
His horrid causeless mirth was more terrible even than his fury.
"What shall we do with him?" asked Haw. "We cannot take him back to
Elmdene. It would be a terrible shock to Laura."
"We could have doctors to certify in the morning. Could we not keep him
here until then? If we take him back, some one will meet us, and there
will be a scandal."
"I know. We will take him to one of the padded rooms, where he can
neither hurt himself nor anyone else. I am somewhat shaken myself.
But I am better now. Do you take one arm, and I will take the other."
Half-leading and half-dragging him they managed between them to convey
the old gunmaker away from the scene of his disaster, and to lodge him
for the night in a place of safety. At five in the morning Robert had
started in the gig to make the medical arrangements, while Raffles Haw
paced his palatial house with a troubled face and a sad heart.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SPREAD OF THE BLIGHT.
It may be that Laura did not look upon the removal of her father as an
unmixed misfortune. Nothing was said to her as to the manner of the old
man's seizure, but Robert informed her at breakfast that he had thought
it best, acting under medical advice, to place him for a time under some
restraint. She had herself frequently remarked upon the growing
eccentricity of his manner, so that the announcement could have been no
great surprise to her. It is certain that it did not diminish her
appetite for the coffee and the scrambled eggs, nor prevent her from
chatting a good deal about her approaching wedding.
But it was very different with Raffles Haw. The incident had shocked
him to his inmost soul. He had often feared lest his money should do
indirect evil, but here were crime and madness arising before his very
eyes from its influence. In vain he tried to choke down his
feelings, and to persuade himself that this attack of old McIntyre's was
something which came of itself--something which had no connection with
himself or his wealth. He remembered the man as he had first met him,
garrulous, foolish, but with no obvious vices. He recalled the change
which, week by week, had come over him--his greedy eye, his furtive
manner, his hints and innuendoes, ending only the day before in a
positive demand for money. It was too certain that there was a chain of
events there leading direct to the horrible encounter in the laboratory.
His money had cast a blight where he had hoped to shed a blessing.
Mr. Spurling, the vicar, was up shortly after breakfast, some rumour of
evil having come to his ears. It was good for Haw to talk with him, for
the fresh breezy manner of the old clergyman was a corrective to his own
sombre and introspective mood.
"Prut, tut!" said he. "This is very bad--very bad indeed! Mind
unhinged, you say, and not likely to get over it! Dear, dear! I have
noticed a change in him these last few weeks. He looked like a man who
had something upon his mind. And how is Mr. Robert McIntyre?"
"He is very well. He was with me this morning when his father had this
attack."
"Ha! There is a change in that young man. I observe an alteration in
him. You will forgive me, Mr. Raffles Haw, if I say a few serious words
of advice to you. Apart from my spiritual functions I am old enough to
be your father. You are a very wealthy man, and you have used your
wealth nobly--yes, sir, nobly. I do not think that there is a man in a
thousand who would have done as well. But don't you think sometimes
that it has a dangerous influence upon those who are around you?"
"I have sometimes feared so." "We may pass over old Mr. McIntyre.
It would hardly be just, perhaps, to mention him in this connection.
But there is Robert. He used to take such an interest in his
profession. He was so keen about art. If you met him, the first words
he said were usually some reference to his plans, or the progress he was
making in his latest picture. He was ambitious, pushing, self-reliant.
Now he does nothing. I know for a fact that it is two months since he
put brush to canvas. He has turned from a student into an idler, and,
what is worse, I fear into a parasite. You will forgive me for speaking
so plainly?"
Raffles Haw said nothing, but he threw out his hands with a gesture of
pain.
"And then there is something to be said about the country folk," said
the vicar. "Your kindness has been, perhaps, a little indiscriminate
there. They don't seem to be as helpful or as self-reliant as they
used. There was old Blaxton, whose cowhouse roof was blown off the
other day. He used to be a man who was full of energy and resource.
Three months ago he would have got a ladder and had that roof on again
in two days' work. But now he must sit down, and wring his hands, and
write letters, because he knew that it would come to your ears, and that
you would make it good. There's old Ellary, too! Well, of course he
was always poor, but at least he did something, and so kept himself out
of mischief. Not a stroke will he do now, but smokes and talks scandal
from morning to night. And the worst of it is, that it not only hurts
those who have had your help, but it unsettles those who have not.
They all have an injured, surly feeling as if other folk were getting
what they had an equal right to. It has really come to such a pitch
that I thought it was a duty to speak to you about it. Well, it is a
new experience to me. I have often had to reprove my parishioners for
not being charitable enough, but it is very strange to find one who is
too charitable. It is a noble error."
"I thank you very much for letting me know about it," answered Raffles
Haw, as he shook the good old clergyman's hand. "I shall certainly
reconsider my conduct in that respect."
He kept a rigid and unmoved face until his visitor had gone, and then
retiring to his own little room, he threw himself upon the bed and burst
out sobbing with his face buried in the pillow. Of all men in England,
this, the richest, was on that day the most miserable. How could he
use this great power which he held? Every blessing which he tried to
give turned itself into a curse. His intentions were so good, and yet
the results were so terrible. It was as if he had some foul leprosy of
the mind which all caught who were exposed to his influence.
His charity, so well meant, so carefully bestowed, had yet poisoned the
whole countryside. And if in small things his results were so evil, how
could he tell that they would be better in the larger plans which he had
formed? If he could not pay the debts of a simple yokel without
disturbing the great laws of cause and effect which lie at the base of
all things, what could he hope for when he came to fill the treasury of
nations, to interfere with the complex conditions of trade, or to
provide for great masses of the population? He drew back with horror as
he dimly saw that vast problems faced him in which he might make errors
which all his money could not repair. The way of Providence was the
straight way. Yet he, a half-blind creature, must needs push in and
strive to alter and correct it. Would he be a benefactor? Might he not
rather prove to be the greatest malefactor that the world had seen?
But soon a calmer mood came upon him, and he rose and bathed his flushed
face and fevered brow. After all, was not there a field where all were
agreed that money might be well spent? It was not the way of nature,
but rather the way of man which he would alter. It was not Providence
that had ordained that folk should live half-starved and overcrowded in
dreary slums. That was the result of artificial conditions, and it
might well be healed by artificial means. Why should not his plans be
successful after all, and the world better for his discovery? Then
again, it was not the truth that he cast a blight on those with whom he
was brought in contact. There was Laura; who knew more of him than she
did, and yet how good and sweet and true she was! She at least had lost
nothing through knowing him. He would go down and see her. It would be
soothing to hear her voice, and to turn to her for words of sympathy in
this his hour of darkness.
The storm had died away, but a soft wind was blowing, and the smack of
the coming spring was in the air. He drew in the aromatic scent of the
fir-trees as he passed down the curving drive. Before him lay the long
sloping countryside, all dotted over with the farmsteadings and little
red cottages, with the morning sun striking slantwise upon their grey
roofs and glimmering windows. His heart yearned over all these people
with their manifold troubles, their little sordid miseries, their
strivings and hopings and petty soul-killing cares. How could he get at
them? How could he manage to lift the burden from them, and yet not
hinder them in their life aim? For more and more could he see that all
refinement is through sorrow, and that the life which does not refine is
the life without an aim.
Laura was alone in the sitting-room at Elmdene, for Robert had gone out
to make some final arrangements about his father. She sprang up as her
lover entered, and ran forward with a pretty girlish gesture to greet
him.
"Oh, Raffles!" she cried, "I knew that you would come. Is it not
dreadful about papa?"
"You must not fret, dearest," he answered gently. "It may not prove to
be so very grave after all."
"But it all happened before I was stirring. I knew nothing about it
until breakfast-time. They must have gone up to the Hall very early."
"Yes, they did come up rather early."
"What is the matter with you, Raffles?" cried Laura, looking up into
his face. "You look so sad and weary!"
"I have been a little in the blues. The fact is, Laura, that I have had
a long talk with Mr. Spurling this morning."
The girl started, and turned white to the lips. A long talk with Mr.
Spurling! Did that mean that he had learned her secret?
"Well?" she gasped.
"He tells me that my charity has done more harm than good, and in fact,
that I have had an evil influence upon every one whom I have come near.
He said it in the most delicate way, but that was really what it
amounted to."
"Oh, is that all?" said Laura, with a long sigh of relief. "You must
not think of minding what Mr. Spurling says. Why, it is absurd on the
face of it! Everybody knows that there are dozens of men all over the
country who would have been ruined and turned out of their houses if
you had not stood their friend. How could they be the worse for having
known you? I wonder that Mr. Spurling can talk such nonsense!"
"How is Robert's picture getting on?"
"Oh, he has a lazy fit on him. He has not touched it for ever so long.
But why do you ask that? You have that furrow on your brow again.
Put it away, sir!"
She smoothed it away with her little white hand.
"Well, at any rate, I don't think that quite everybody is the worse,"
said he, looking down at her. "There is one, at least, who is beyond
taint, one who is good, and pure, and true, and who would love me as
well if I were a poor clerk struggling for a livelihood. You would,
would you not, Laura?"
"You foolish boy! of course I would."
"And yet how strange it is that it should be so. That you, who are the
only woman whom I have ever loved, should be the only one in whom I also
have raised an affection which is free from greed or interest. I wonder
whether you may not have been sent by Providence simply to restore my
confidence in the world. How barren a place would it not be if it were
not for woman's love! When all seemed black around me this morning, I
tell you, Laura, that I seemed to turn to you and to your love as the
one thing on earth upon which I could rely. All else seemed shifting,
unstable, influenced by this or that base consideration. In you, and
you only, could I trust."
"And I in you, dear Raffles! I never knew what love was until I met
you."
She took a step towards him, her hands advanced, love shining in her
features, when in an instant Raffles saw the colour struck from her
face, and a staring horror spring into her eyes. Her blanched and rigid
face was turned towards the open door, while he, standing partly
behind it, could not see what it was that had so moved her.
"Hector!" she gasped, with dry lips.
A quick step in the hall, and a slim, weather-tanned young man sprang
forward into the room, and caught her up in his arms as if she had been
a feather.
"You darling!" he said; "I knew that I would surprise you. I came right
up from Plymouth by the night train. And I have long leave, and plenty
of time to get married. Isn't it jolly, dear Laura?"
He pirouetted round with her in the exuberance of his delight. As he
spun round, however, his eyes fell suddenly upon the pale and silent
stranger who stood by the door. Hector blushed furiously, and made an
awkward sailor bow, standing with Laura's cold and unresponsive hand
still clasped in his.
"Very sorry, sir--didn't see you," he said. "You'll excuse my going on
in this mad sort of way, but if you had served you would know what it is
to get away from quarter-deck manners, and to be a free man. Miss
McIntyre will tell you that we have known each other since we were
children, and as we are to be married in, I hope, a month at the latest,
we understand each other pretty well."
Raffles Haw still stood cold and motionless. He was stunned, benumbed,
by what he saw and heard. Laura drew away from Hector, and tried to
free her hand from his grasp.
"Didn't you get my letter at Gibraltar?" she asked.
"Never went to Gibraltar. Were ordered home by wire from Madeira.
Those chaps at the Admiralty never know their own minds for two hours
together. But what matter about a letter, Laura, so long as I can see
you and speak with you? You have not introduced me to your friend
here."
"One word, sir," cried Raffles Haw in a quivering voice. "Do I entirely
understand you? Let me be sure that there is no mistake. You say that
you are engaged to be married to Miss McIntyre?"
"Of course I am. I've just come back from a four months' cruise, and I
am going to be married before I drag my anchor again."
"Four months!" gasped Haw. "Why, it is just four months since I came
here. And one last question, sir. Does Robert McIntyre know of your
engagement?"
"Does Bob know? Of course he knows. Why, it was to his care I left
Laura when I started. But what is the meaning of all this? What is the
matter with you, Laura? Why are you so white and silent? And--hallo!
Hold up, sir! The man is fainting!"
"It is all right!" gasped Haw, steadying himself against the edge of the
door.
He was as white as paper, and his hand was pressed close to his side as
though some sudden pain had shot through him. For a moment he tottered
there like a stricken man, and then, with a hoarse cry, he turned and
fled out through the open door.
"Poor devil!" said Hector, gazing in amazement after him. "He seems
hard hit anyhow. But what is the meaning of all this, Laura?"
His face had darkened, and his mouth had set.
She had not said a word, but had stood with a face like a mask looking
blankly in front of her. Now she tore herself away from him, and,
casting herself down with her face buried in the cushion of the sofa,
she burst into a passion of sobbing.
"It means that you have ruined me," she cried. "That you have
ruined-ruined--ruined me! Could you not leave us alone? Why must you
come at the last moment? A few more days, and we were safe. And you
never had my letter."
"And what was in your letter, then?" he asked coldly, standing with his
arms folded, looking down at her.
"It was to tell you that I released you. I love Raffles Haw, and I was
to have been his wife. And now it is all gone. Oh, Hector, I hate you,
and I shall always hate you as long as I live, for you have stepped
between me and the only good fortune that ever came to me. Leave me
alone, and I hope that you will never cross our threshold again."
"Is that your last word, Laura?"
"The last that I shall ever speak to you."
"Then, good-bye. I shall see the Dad, and go straight back to Plymouth."
He waited an instant, in hopes of an answer, and then walked sadly from
the room.
CHAPTER XV.
THE GREATER SECRET.
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."
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