The Doings of Raffles Haw | Page 6

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