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 scattered4 bristle5 of dark trees, with his own little Elmdene nestling back from the broad, white winding6 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 plume7 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 plantation8 of fir-trees. By the lodge9 gates a vast pile of debris10, with lines of sheds for workmen, and huge heaps of planks11 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 rumour12 had first gone about that a millionaire had bought a tract13 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 waggons14 conveyed the white Portland stone from the depot15 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 carving16 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 machinery17, vast cylinders18, 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 rumoured19 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 plumbers20 and furnishers were busy beneath, carrying out a thousand strange and costly21 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 lessen22 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, glossy23 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 heralded24 the approach of the owner, Mr. Raffles25 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 tenant26 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 lavish27 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, puffing28 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, kindly29 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 remarkable30 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 spoke31 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 Squire32 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 stammer33 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 thither34 he retreated after lunch. It was as well that he should have some little den3 of his own, for his father would talk of little save of his ledgers35 and accounts, while Laura had become peevish36 and querulous since the one tie which held her to Tamfield had been removed. The chamber37 was a bare and bleak38 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 brace39 of pictures had journeyed to town, and twice they had come back to him, until the finely gilded40 frames which had made such a call upon his purse began to show signs of these varied41 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 galleys42. 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 wielding43 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 trifling44 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 descending45 into the sitting-room46 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 approbation47. “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 artistic48 nature revolted at these petty and sordid49 disputes, and he turned to the crisp air and the broad landscape to soothe50 his ruffled51 feelings. Avarice52 had no place among his failings, and his father's perpetual chatter53 about money inspired him with a positive loathing54 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 smokers55 which overrides56 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 bent57 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 eyebrows58 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 discreet59 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.”
“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 mere62 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 assented63, and walked up the winding drive amid the growing fir-trees. When he found his uncouth64 guide, however, marching straight across the broad, gravel61 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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1
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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2
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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3
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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4
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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7
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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11
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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12
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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13
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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14
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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15
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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cylinders
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| n.圆筒( cylinder的名词复数 )；圆柱；汽缸；（尤指用作容器的）圆筒状物 | |
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19
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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21
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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22
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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23
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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24
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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raffles
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| n.抽彩售物( raffle的名词复数 )v.以抽彩方式售（物）( raffle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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26
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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27
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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28
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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29
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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32
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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38
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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39
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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40
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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41
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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42
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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43
wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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44
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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45
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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46
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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47
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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48
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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49
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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50
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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51
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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53
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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54
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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55
smokers
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| 吸烟者( smoker的名词复数 ) | |
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56
overrides
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| 越控( override的第三人称单数 )； （以权力）否决； 优先于； 比…更重要 | |
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57
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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58
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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59
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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60
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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