The Doings of Raffles Haw | Page 7

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