The Doings of Raffles Haw, Arthur Conan Doyle [best large ebook reader .TXT] 📗

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.”

They reached the Hall as the butler finished his explanation, and there outside the laboratory door stood the little knot of footmen and ostlers, while the village policeman, who had just arrived, was holding his bull’s-eye to the keyhole, and endeavouring to peep through.

“The key is half-turned,” he said. “I can’t see nothing except just the light.”

“Here’s Mr. McIntyre,” cried half-a-dozen voices, as Robert came forward.

“We’ll have to beat the door in, sir,” said the policeman. “We can’t get any sort of answer, and there’s something wrong.”

Twice and thrice they threw their united weights against it until at last with a sharp snap the lock broke, and they crowded into the narrow passage. The inner door was ajar, and the laboratory lay before them.

In the centre was an enormous heap of fluffy grey ash, reaching up half-way to the ceiling. Beside it was another heap, much smaller, of some brilliant scintillating dust, which shimmered brightly in the rays of the electric light. All round was a bewildering chaos of broken jars, shattered bottles, cracked machinery, and tangled wires, all bent and draggled. And there in the midst of this universal ruin, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped upon his lap, and the easy pose of one who rests after hard work safely carried through, sat Raffles Haw, the master of the house, and the richest of mankind, with the pallor of death upon his face. So easily he sat and so naturally, with such a serene expression upon his features, that it was not until they raised him, and touched his cold and rigid limbs, that they could realise that he had indeed passed away.

Reverently and slowly they bore him to his room, for he was beloved by all who had served him. Robert alone lingered with the policeman in the laboratory. Like a man in a dream he wandered about, marvelling at the universal destruction. A large broad-headed hammer lay upon the ground, and with this Haw had apparently set himself to destroy all his apparatus, having first used his electrical machines to reduce to protyle all the stock of gold which he had accumulated. The treasure-room which had so dazzled Robert consisted now of merely four bare walls, while the gleaming dust upon the floor proclaimed the fate of that magnificent collection of gems which had alone amounted to a royal fortune. Of all the machinery no single piece remained intact, and even the glass table was shattered into three pieces. Strenuously earnest must have been the work which Raffles Haw had done that day.

And suddenly Robert thought of the secret which had been treasured in the casket within the iron-clamped box. It was to tell him the one last essential link which would make his knowledge of the process complete. Was it still there? Thrilling all over, he opened the great chest, and drew out the ivory box. It was locked, but the key was in it. He turned it and threw open the lid. There was a white slip of paper with his own name written upon it. With trembling fingers he unfolded it. Was he the heir to the riches of El Dorado, or was he destined to be a poor struggling artist? The note was dated that very evening, and ran in this way:

“MY DEAR ROBERT,—My secret shall never be used again. I cannot tell you how I thank Heaven that I did not entirely confide it to you, for I should have been handing over an inheritance of misery both to yourself and others. For myself I have hardly had a happy moment since I discovered it. This I could have borne had I been able to feel that I was doing good, but, alas! the only effect of my attempts has been to turn workers into idlers, contented men into greedy parasites, and, worst of all, true, pure women into deceivers and hypocrites. If this is the effect of my interference on a small scale, I cannot hope for anything better were I to carry out the plans which we have so often discussed. The schemes of my life have all turned to nothing. For myself, you shall never see me again. I shall go back to the student life from which I emerged. There, at least, if I can do little good, I can do no harm. It is my wish that such valuables as remain in the Hall should be sold, and the proceeds divided amidst all the charities of Birmingham. I shall leave tonight if I am well enough, but I have been much troubled all day by a stabbing pain in my side. It is as if wealth were as bad for health as it