The Doings of Raffles Haw. Артур Конан Дойл

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ